Juliet On The Edge
by Loafer
Summary: Semi-purposeless all-LASSIET smut, but the chapters do show a progression of their life together. It's not even just Juliet on the edge...
1. Chapter 1: Fire

**Rating**: M. M, M, M. **M**.

**Disclaimer**: I claim no ownership of anything _**psych**_. And oh yeah, I'm a shameless hussy.

**Summary**: Purposeless Lassiet smut. No value to society, no lasting literary merit, and you should probably avoid it to prove you're a better person than I am. No particular timeline, but no one's involved with anyone else. One-shot, by the way, because no one could possibly want more than one chapter of this. [Update: apparently I was wrong about the one-shot-ness. Oops.]

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

It was ridiculous.

It was human, maybe—she was a healthy adult female with natural… er, _needs_—but it was ridiculous.

She was daydreaming about Carlton. Her partner. Her partner, who could only be more off limits if he were married, _because he was her partner_.

Which seemed to be too damn bad, since the daydreams raged on.

And they weren't nice daydreams, at least not in the conventional sense of 'nice.'

But oh yeah, they were _niiiiice_. In the _un_conventional sense of 'flat-out lascivious.' Wanton, even.

Initially they invaded her head at night while she was trying to go to sleep, but after a time, they began to torment her during the day as well.

He was just so damned attractive, in ways he probably couldn't even begin to grasp. Those eyes, _dear God_, those every-shade-of-blue eyes. The hair, the lean build, the way he looked in his suits, the way he looked when he was blazing mad, the way he looked after his first cup of coffee, the way he looked when he was smiling at her after a private joke or a job well done—or simply while they were having a pleasant lunch alone somewhere. And he smelled good, and she loved his hands, graceful but strong and no doubt so very warm, because she knew he was warm. Despite his reputation, there was nothing cold about him. He gave off sparks sometimes.

But the wanting… it was killing her.

So far, the highlights of what she had imagined (some of them more than once):

1) molesting him in the Crown Vic, not necessarily while the vehicle was parked

2) putting down all the blinds in the conference room and stripping off one article of clothing at a time until he gave in and took her right on the table

3) grabbing his butt in Observation and enticing him to take her up against the wall

4) inviting him over for dinner and serving it naked

5) inviting him over for dinner, knocking him out, getting _him_ naked and then waking him so she could eat said dinner off his lean nude body, with whipped cream a mandatory menu item

6) telling him she needed a ceiling light bulb replaced and thanking him by doing wicked things to him while he was on the ladder and a certain part of his anatomy was at eye-level, and then he could thank _her_ by doing wicked things when he came down off the ladder

7) calling him to claim she'd fallen in the tub, and having him 'rescue' her conveniently nude soapy body, and yes, at some point he would fall in the tub with her, because duh

8) hiring a mugger to rob him of all his clothing outside her doorstep and cover him with chocolate, leaving her to 'rescue' him by taking him inside to remove the chocolate with her tongue

9) kidnapping him back to his own condo and plying him with liquor and talk of Glocks until he showed her his… _if you know what I mean, and I think you do_…

10) walking out of the station with him one night and turning to say simply, "Do me."

As the months wore on and the fantasies grew in number and complexity, she found herself leaning toward #10. Though #8 had great appeal. So did its corollary, which was showing up at his door covered in chocolate _herself_.

She was going insane, no doubt about it.

She imagined passing his desk on her way to the filing cabinet and Carlton pulling her down to sit in his lap. She imagined him sliding his hand up her skirt—she wore skirts a lot lately just in case—while he kissed her senseless, and it always seemed to be late at night with no one around (because she really wasn't an exhibitionist).

She imagined having trouble with the copier and that he would come up behind her to "help," sliding his arms around her waist because _of course_ that was the best way to provide assistance, and if _somehow_ her blouse got unbuttoned in the process, while _somehow_ his zipper got caught in her belt so that there was nothing for it but that his pants should come off, well, workplace accidents are so common, really. If not, no reason they couldn't be arranged.

She imagined simply lying in bed with him, under him, his incredibly blue gaze locked to hers while they moved together…

And one day, after several months of nearly 24/7 lust, she went berserk.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They were in the conference room, and had been for hours, poring over files for a complicated case involving both money laundering and extortion.

Juliet watched Carlton making notations in the file; watched how he ran a hand through his black and silver hair restlessly—hair she wanted desperately to touch—and watched his shoulders and chest as they rose and fell with each breath he took.

"Would you just stop it!" she burst out.

Carlton looked up sharply. "_What_?"

"Just stop," she pleaded. "You're driving me mad!"

"O'Hara," he said with a touch of anger, "what the hell are you talking about?"

She got to her feet, pacing around the table, frustrated and outraged. "You have no idea... you have no idea what you're doing to me."

Now he was definitely angry. "No, and if we're about to play that game where you say if I don't know what's wrong then you're not going to tell me, I'll—"

"_Oh_," she cut him off, "I _know_ you don't know what's wrong, and I am _so_ going to tell you." She stalked around the table and leaned in close where he sat.

His eyes were a curious half-angry, half-intrigued shade of blue, dark and light and hypnotic all at once, and he leaned back a little as if to escape her ire. And he was so unbelievably kissable; it pissed her off even more.

"You," she said, poking him in the chest. "_You_."

He scowled. "What the hell's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means you don't know what you do to me just sitting there. Yeah, because you _have_ to be so hot. You _have_ to have those eyes, my _God_, those eyes I could just fall into. The hands, the chest hair—you just sit there like it's all nothing to you. How _dare_ you?" She stalked away again, aware of how very wide and startled "those eyes" were now. "You don't have any idea how many fantasies I've had about you. I can't even watch you walk by my desk without wanting to rip your clothes off. It's making me _crazy_!"

She stopped by the door, breathing hard and filled with... she couldn't even describe it. Anger, frustration, lust, with lust first on the list and anger a close second and need, well, need was above anger, but in fourth place there was more lust and another dose of frustration in slot #5.

Carlton stood up, staring at her. "O'Hara."

"Oh, shut up," she snapped. "Just stop being the way you are. Shut it off. Stop the pheromones already. I can't take it anymore."

He strode toward her and for a moment she thought he was going to yell, but he reached past her for the doorknob and she thought _oh God he's going to leave and why shouldn't he, since I'm clearly insane_.

But… he _locked_ the door.

Then he flicked the blinds closed, and while those facts were slowly registering, he cupped her face in his warm hands and kissed her.

Juliet's personal fire immediately roared up around her. In an instant, she was kissing him back, discovering his wonderfully sensuous mouth and tongue and heat, and she wrapped her arms around him hard and tight because she _wanted_ to be glued to him, and that hadn't even been on the list. _Ooh, edible glue... mmmm yeah baby..._

Carlton's hands moved to her back, to her ass, under her skirt, yanking her closer to his body and pressing her to the wall as the kiss became deeper and hungrier.

One of her legs wrapped around his thigh and yet there was still room between them for one of his wondrously evil long-fingered warm hands to slide down the _front_ of her skirt, and the minute he touched her she was three-quarters gone. And he abso-freaking-lutely knew it.

"That's it," he growled, "no foreplay _this_ time." He tugged her skirt up and unzipped his pants and without any further ceremony, Juliet finally got done.

And done very damned well, thank you.

It was a struggle not to express herself as loudly as she wanted; she remained dimly aware of the thinness of the wall and glass between them and the rest of the station and she sent fervent thanks to whoever had used the room before them and put all the other blinds down; now if everyone would just steer clear of the room, not knock, not call, not page not _oh God yes yes yes could you feel any better harder more deeper yes yes yes YES_ she gripped his shoulders and threw her head back and he suckled her neck and growled out his passion as their ungentle union went on... and on... and on... and not nearly long enough.

This wasn't _exactly_ on her list; the up-against-the wall-fantasy had been #3, in the Observation room; the meeting room incident was supposed to take place on the table. Still, she could adapt, because he felt even better around her, inside her, than any of her imaginings; it was far more glorious than she'd imagined to be melded to his lean hard body and to nuzzle his jaw and the base of his warm throat where the dark curls of chest hair were peeking out of his shirt—a shirt she would rip open if she had the strength—and when it was over she was trembling from head to toe, clinging to him weakly, trying to find air.

From his own breathing, it sounded as if he were in the same state. He held her, supporting her in part by keeping her pressed to the wall with his body, and murmured sweet unintelligible words against her hair.

"Much better," she whispered.

"You're welcome." He was amused. "Next time, all the foreplay you want."

Juliet kissed him, still out of breath. "Tonight. My place. Or yours, I don't care."

"You don't want to go off and think about it awhile?" (That would be Insecure!Carlton talking.)

She licked his lower lip tantalizingly. "Honey, I have a list to work through. I'll think about it after that."

Carlton relaxed, stroking her hair back gently. "Tell me more about this list."

"You'll find out as we go," she assured him. "Do you like chocolate?"

His eyes grew wide again, but this time she detected the arousal in the blue. "Syrup?"

"Body paint," she whispered, "but that's item #8."

He let out a sigh and pushed against her lower body, clearly still revved up as much as she was. "I have a list too, you know."

Juliet trailed her tongue along the warm skin of his throat, undulating against him. "We'll take turns."

"This could take awhile, then."

Suddenly she realized what he'd said. "Wait, _you_ have a list?" She pulled back enough to stare at him.

He blushed. "Of course."

"How long?"

"Is what?" He was smirking, and in truth she could only guess, until they fully disentangled and she could see for herself.

Juliet laughed. "You mean for months I've been struggling not to jump your bones because I thought you'd resist me, but you wouldn't have resisted me?"

"O'Hara," he said firmly, "exactly how long did it take for me to unzip my pants just now?"

She gave him a feline grin. "Next time, you'll be a little faster."

Another smirk. "That's the _only_ thing I'll do faster."

How promising. "Can we relocate someplace more private?"

He kissed her slowly. "Evidence Room's probably empty."

Juliet undulated meaningfully against him, and those incredible blue eyes darkened again with new desire.

"Or we could go home," he suggested instead.

"Let's do that."

They separated reluctantly and made themselves presentable, and as they gathered up the files and papers from their case, he asked, "How many items are on your list?"

"Ten main ones, but there are quite a few corollaries and a sublist of three exceptionally wicked and completely improbable scenarios."

Carlton blushed, but was clearly titillated.

"How many on yours?" she asked, unlocking the door and opening the blinds.

"Seven hundred and twenty-six," he said matter-of-factly.

Juliet whirled and stared at him, mouth open.

He was smiling—still a hint of a blush, too. "Like I said, this is going to take awhile."

She hoped he would catch her if she passed out. "You're taking me home right now," she said flatly. "And just so you know, I _expect_ you to use the siren."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	2. Chapter 2: Substance

**Summary**: just a tiny little smutty addition to the formerly-one-shot smutfest.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Before work, while he lay in bed listening to Juliet try to talk him into skipping his morning run and "exercising" with her instead (which speech was successful), Lassiter misheard something she murmured against the skin of his chest.

What she actually said was, "We have some time to put in here, you know."

He _thought_ she said, "We'll have some kind of pudding here, you know."

She laughed and pretty much purred when he told her this, and the next twenty minutes were another blur of passion.

But all day long, he kept thinking about what he thought she'd said.

And all day long, he had a _lot_ of trouble concentrating on his job.

Midmorning, on the way back from a crime scene, they stopped for coffee. Juliet got a latte with whipped cream and smiled at him the whole time she sipped at it.

At lunch, she ordered some kind of dessert—it hardly mattered what—which had a caramel drizzle on it, and she kept dipping her finger into the sticky sweetness, licking her finger clean with tormenting slowness while smiling at him in that same wicked, wicked way.

Mid-afternoon, they had to visit an 'adult novelties' store—not for any personal purchases, but because the owner was accosted as he was entering, pushed inside and forced to surrender the contents of the cash register along with a shopping bag full of vibrators, dildos, body paint and beads.

Lassiter had little to say. Truthfully, there was little he was _capable_ of saying.

Juliet held up well enough; her cheeks were a little pink but there was nothing shy in the glances she kept giving Lassiter, who finally had to turn away. Problem was, in a sex shop, there wasn't much to look at which wasn't salacious in _some_ fashion.

By the time they left with his statement and security video footage, Lassiter was barely functional.

He was driving, and told her tersely that they had to make a stop at home before returning to the station.

She said, "Hallelujah."

They were barely inside the condo before she was barely dressed and tearing at his clothes.

They didn't make it to the bedroom. He had her on the floor by the loveseat.

They both felt a lot better afterwards, and Lassiter thought maybe the 'worst' of it was over.

But then Juliet got up and went into the kitchen, telling him not to move—as if he could—and when she returned, all golden-haired and flushed and delightful to behold in her naked state, she held a container.

Of pudding.

Just a small one.

Butterscotch, he thought; something she'd bought for a workday snack.

It felt cool against his skin, and smooth (definitely butterscotch) when he removed it from her breasts with his tongue—and they needed a shower after.

Their quickie turned into several hours (they had to call in to say they were taking the rest of the day off), but this was no real loss to the citizens of Santa Barbara. Juliet confessed that she'd been as distracted as he was, and admitted to tempting him with whipped cream and caramel drizzle. Her 'comeuppance' was having banged her head against the loveseat during their first encounter, but he kissed it to make it better and next thing they knew, she was fetching another cup of pudding from the kitchen.

He resolved to mis-hear her more often. This had worked out really, really well.

He also resolved to keep pudding on hand.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	3. Chapter 3: Timeless

**CHAPTER THREE: Timeless**

**. . . .**

_**More smut. Sorry? Okay, not really.**_

****. . . .****

**. . .**

Carlton was getting dressed to go out for his Civil War reenactment rehearsal Saturday morning, and Juliet was watching from the bed, where they had started the day with a fair amount of shared lust.

She admired his lean body and how he looked in the crisp uniform with the shiny buttons; the only word for him was dashing. He'd been letting his hair grow out a little the last couple of weeks in anticipation of the reenactment and she was having a hard time keeping her hands out of it. He didn't really mind, though.

Juliet wished he was willing to forego shaving for a week but he didn't think Chief Vick would go for the unkempt "in transition" look, so the facial hair would be fake on the day of the reenactment itself.

She got up off the bed to smooth down his jacket and toy with his buttons, and Carlton smiled at her, his blue eyes indicating complete awareness of her mood.

"I'm already dressed, and I'll be late if I let you do what you so obviously want to do," he said reasonably.

Juliet sighed. "I know. Would you give me just one—" But he was already kissing her, having tugged her tight against him, and she slid her arms around his neck and drew the kiss out as long as she could. She used her tongue to tempt him to stay a bit longer, loving the sound of his faster breathing as his kiss became more urgent. It was so easy to rev him up (and vice versa). She loved that she could.

Carlton valiantly set her away from him, those same blue eyes now dark with desire. "Dammit, woman, don't make me take this uniform off again."

Demurely, she put her hands behind her back and retreated… a single step. "You don't have to take the _entire_ uniform off."

One of his dark eyebrows went up. He glanced at the clock.

Then he undid her robe, underneath which she conveniently wore nothing, and slowly, gently began to caress her bare skin.

Juliet's sigh was profound. She was already trembling. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "but I just have to have you sometimes, you know?"

Carlton grinned. "I can relate." He grasped her waist and lifted her up onto the dresser. The silky robe, once he pushed it off her shoulders, pooled around her hips, and he didn't need to ask her to part her thighs.

She undid his pants while he touched her—stroked her—made her quiver. His lips were so sensuous on her neck, trailing up to her jaw; his breath warm and soft against her cheek before he kissed her hard again, and when they were both ready, he pushed into her body while his tongue invaded her mouth.

Juliet clung to her Civil War man. His hands were on her hips, both anchoring her and drawing her to him, and she only stopped kissing him when her orgasm overtook her ability to multi-task.

This seemed to spur him on, to drive into her faster and harder. Juliet loved him like this, loved his need for her, loved everything about him. Looking into his eyes—lost in the passion those blue depths revealed—she was flung over the edge in the moments before he joined her, leaving them both gasping for air, kissing between gulping breaths, her damp nude body pressed to his half-dressed frame.

His hands were shaking when he let her go. He rested his head on her shoulder, breathing deeply, and she stroked his soft black-and-silver hair, calming him, whispering her love and hearing him whisper it back.

"I'll make it up to you, you know. If you're late."

He looked at her and smiled. "What if I'm not late?"

Juliet laughed. "Even then."

She already knew how, and after he left for rehearsal, she began to put her plan into action.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter got home early in the evening, tired and dusty and already thinking about relaxing with his Juliet. He hadn't been able to quite put the memory of their dresser incident behind him—it remained vivid in his memory even as he directed his fellow soldiers to play their roles.

She had that effect on him. Daily. When they were on the job, they both focused on their responsibilities, but any time they were alone, they were generally fused together. These past few months had been rife, fraught and riddled with sensual encounters, and he couldn't imagine how things could be better.

Until he opened the door and saw her standing by the dining table holding a bottle of wine.

Juliet smiled. "Hey, soldier."

Lassiter swallowed, managed to turn and lock the door, and then stood and stared at her some more.

Her smile turned a bit evil. "Buy a girl a drink?"

He couldn't speak.

She was a saloon girl. She was all blue satin and black stockings—the dress cut high on one side to show him the bare skin of her thigh above a blue garter—and cleavage. Bare shoulders, hair piled high and a feather to top it off.

"Oh, my God," he said unsteadily. "You are the sexiest thing I have ever seen."

"Why thank you, Colonel. But won't you buy me a drink?" She gestured to two wine glasses on the table and handed him the bottle and a corkscrew.

"I'll buy you any damned thing you want." He uncorked the bottle efficiently despite staring at her smooth, creamy shoulders and the cleavage which was so tempting, and poured for both of them. "A toast?"

"To the soldiers," she agreed, taking the glass he offered and stepping closer. Her perfume was light and intoxicating. "To you, Colonel Lassiter."

"And to you, Miss O'Hara," he murmured, and kissed her before she could drink.

"Now, Colonel," she admonished, stepping away. "We drink before we celebrate in any other way." But she licked her perfect lips, and he was already a goner.

She pulled out one of the dining table chairs and did something especially wicked: she put one high-heeled foot up on the lower rung, leaning forward to rest her elbow on her knee.

This gave Lassiter an unobstructed view of what she was _not_ wearing underneath the satin and lace skirt, above the black stockings and blue garter.

He was silent, lost in wonder.

"Colonel," she said smoothly, "you're staring."

"Damn straight," he breathed, and downed his wine.

Juliet laughed and finished hers off, too. "I'll have another. Won't you?"

"I'll have _you_." He advanced, but she again retreated, holding her empty glass out between them.

"Easy, Colonel."

"I hope you _are_," he said challengingly as he poured.

She laughed again. "Well, I'm certainly not this forward with _every_ man who comes in here."

"Good." He held up his glass. "Another toast. To the beautiful love of my life, whom this colonel intends to ravish until one or both of us expires." He drank. "Preferably me first."

"Selfish," she tsked. "I vote we go out together."

"Deal." He'd had enough. He set his glass down, took hers away, tossed his hat to the table and yanked her into his arms.

The Civil War soldier and saloon girl—all fabric, buttons, lace and rustling—stood by the dining room table, kissing long and deep and hard.

Their hands were so clever, finding ways to touch each other through their respective layers of clothing, though to be sure Lassiter had it easier in one regard… in one area. Her naked flesh under the poofy satin skirt was silky heated perfection, and her soft moans were as crazy-making as her perfume and her sighs and the feel of her lips grazing his jaw.

Her nimble fingers undid his uniform buttons and relieved him of his belt, but Lassiter did not undress her. He helped divest himself of his jacket and shirt, and then nearly dragged her to the bedroom.

Dumping her on the bed—she was still graceful; Juliet could never be anything other than graceful—he kissed her and sat on the edge to pull his boots off. She stroked his bare back and gave him the shivers with kisses down his spine, her hands sliding around to his midriff and under the fabric of his pants.

"Oh, Colonel," she purred. "I do love exploring."

He knew he sounded a bit strangled when he told her how much _he_ loved her explorations.

"Don't you want me to take this dress off?" she inquired when he joined her, his pants and shorts now on the floor.

"No," he growled, but tugged the top of her dress down to fully expose her breasts.

"Mmmm… okay… but don't rip anything. It's rented," she admitted breathlessly as he nibbled.

Lassiter had figured as much, but also figured he'd pay whatever it cost if there was a sudden need to tear the dress from her body.

"I'm a cliché," he said, "lusting after a woman in a saloon girl costume, but damn, Juliet. _Damn_."

The dress was gathered around her waist, and he knelt between her parted legs admiring the black stockings and how devastatingly tempting she was, pale skin contrasting with the blue and black fabric and lace, her hair falling loose and haloing her beautiful flushed face.

"Lust is good." She reached out and stroked his bare chest. "Show me what you want, Colonel. Give me what I need." Her tone was pure eroticism, and Lassiter gave up all semblance of gentlemanly behavior for awhile.

Actually, for many hours.

Juliet seemed quite happy to be ravished repeatedly. Lassiter was certainly happy to be ravished right back.

The dress survived the night relatively unscathed, and the feather saw some action too (they agreed they'd have to replace that), and just before Lassiter passed out from utter sexual exhaustion, he told her she'd more than made up for making him late for the rehearsal that morning.

Juliet kissed his temple. "Doesn't mean I won't try it again."

He was a practical man, careful with a dollar. "We'd better see about _buying_ that costume, then."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	4. Chapter 4: Other Women

**CHAPTER FOUR: Other Women**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_**And the smut just keeps on comin' ~ **feel free to tell me to stop. Not that I **would**. But you can **tell** me**.**_

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"Francie says it's smut," Buzz said, glancing nervously over his shoulder as Shawn flicked through pictures on his iPad. "She says someone _always_ knows if you're looking at it."

Gus, keeping a suitable distance away to reflect his disapproval, nodded in agreement.

"This is not smut," Shawn protested. "It's comic book art."

"Of buxom, half-naked women," Gus said. "Which you are looking at because they _are_ buxom and half-naked, not because you care one damned bit whether Captain Zapp saves the world from homicidal harlots."

Shawn hesitated. "Well. I have to admit, I'm not sure the world _needs_ saving from harlots. Besides, it's possible their homicidal inclinations can be redirected."

Buzz was blushing. "I'm sorry. I have to go before someone sees me seeing this." He hurried off.

Lassiter cleared his throat. "Excuse me, did you need police assistance of some kind, or are you just here to show off your soft-core porn?"

"Lassie! Don't you start." Shawn flopped down in the chair next to his desk. "These are high-quality images. Art! Besides, you need to check out Rakisha, the harlot queen's handmaid. Look at those—"

Henry interrupted from his own desk. "Shawn, knock it off. We're working here."

"I'm working too, Dad. These prints were stolen from our client. See, check out her boots. They're the exact color of her—"

"Enough," Lassiter snapped. "Henry, in your capacity as leader of the consultant lunatic fringe, please get these two out of here."

Henry sighed. "Fine." He got up and grabbed Shawn's arm, leading him away with Gus at their heels, ignoring Shawn's protests.

Juliet came over from her desk and sat in the chair recently occupied by Shawn. "So," she said quietly, with a smile. "You don't like looking at scantily-clad women?"

He met her blue-gray gaze squarely and answered just as quietly. "I like looking at you when _you're_ scantily clad." He was thinking of a saloon girl costume, in fact. "Of course I also like looking at you when you're fully dressed."

She smirked, and her hand went to the top button of her blouse; he followed the movement, and caught her grin. "I'm not asking about me. I'm asking if you're pretending to be above looking at sexy images."

Leaning forward to be sure he was not overheard, Lassiter said, "Of course not. I try not to make a _habit_ of it, not that I need to with you in my life, but of course I appreciate the female form in various stages of undress."

"So elegantly phrased," she teased.

"The point is," he persisted, "I don't see any value in broadcasting my interests to the world at large, and I don't glorify the women who choose to be objectified. Not to mention that many of them _don't_ choose, and end up objectified anyway."

Juliet was studying him curiously. "You're... Well, I guess I knew this—you're a gentleman about women."

He felt his face warming. "Sounds old-fashioned. I don't know what I am. Society makes it hard to know what correct behavior is anymore because everything seems to be within bounds even when it shouldn't be."

"You know right from wrong, Carlton. That's a start. It's more than a lot of guys today have." She cast a meaningful glance in the direction Shawn had just been dragged.

Moving his chair closer to the end of the desk, he took a look around and reached out to squeeze her hand briefly. "I have to agree. For example, I'd never tell _anyone_ about the colonel and the saloon girl because in the first place, it might affect your reputation, which could hurt you, and I don't want to ever hurt you. In the second place, what goes on between us is private and special and not for anyone else's ears or imagination. No one else needs to know about our intimate moments—or hours," he added with a grin, "because they belong to _us_. To share them diminishes their value. Diminishes us. I don't want that."

Juliet smiled slowly, her eyes alight with love. "I wish more people knew you like I do."

He smiled back. "I wish I could kiss you right now."

She crossed her legs, her hand straying to the top button of her blouse again. "I wish the station was empty so you could make love to me right here on your desk."

Lassiter's eyebrows went up. "Well, I wish _your_ wish could come true. I wouldn't mind a memory of you naked in my chair."

Sighing, she checked the room again before stroking his palm lightly, making him shiver. "I could definitely spend an hour just kissing my way up and down your body, starting with your left calf."

"Do tell," he murmured. They were almost too close now for anyone glancing over to _not_ have cause to wonder what they were discussing. "See, I would start with your right breast."

"Is that your favorite?" Her smile was wicked.

"Oh, by no means. I love them both. And your navel. And the skin just behind your ear," he whispered, seeing her slight tremble.

"Carlton," she whispered back. "I'd really like to get you alone right now."

"Oh? What would you do with me?" He smiled, already aroused.

"Before or after I ripped your shirt open?"

Suddenly he wished he had a glass of cold water, maybe a pitcher, to dump in his lap. "After."

"Naturally I would apologize for ripping your shirt open," she said demurely. "Then I would stroke your chest for quite a while, from collarbone all the way down to your navel. I might have to kiss you a lot, too."

His mouth was dry; might have to _drink_ some of that cold water first. "My lips or my chest?"

"Both." This time, when she crossed her legs, his gaze flicked in that direction. "Are you thinking of the janitor's closet? Because I am."

"We almost got caught the last time," he reminded her, "but yes, I am. What would do after you finished with my chest?"

"I'd unbuckle your belt and unzip your pants, of course." She was starting to look a bit restless. "What would you do with me?"

"I'd be more careful with your clothes," Lassiter assured her. "But they'd come off pretty fast. The blouse could stay on but it'd be open before very long."

Juliet let out a huge sigh. "Okay, I'll go scope out the closet. I'll text you when it's safe." She was gone before he could react.

Normally they did resist each other at work. _Normally_. There had been a few exceptions. Today was obviously one of them.

It seemed to take forever for the text to come through, and it said "All clear, and get here NOW."

He was on his feet in an instant, navigating the halls and stairs to get to her. The janitor's closet was really a small room lined with supply shelves on one side, cleaning equipment on the other, and a wide beat-up wooden bench at the back.

Juliet was sitting there, arms folded. "This is ridiculous."

"I know," he agreed, moving vacuum cleaners and floor waxers and a giant trash bin in front of the door so that if someone did come in (not that anyone should, and the janitor wouldn't be in for hours), there'd be some barrier between them and total exposure. What he'd told her before was true: he would hate more than anything for _her _reputation to be compromised. "You want to change your mind?"

"Hell, no. No way can I wait until tonight."

Lassiter smiled down at his perturbed love. "Then what's ridiculous? Two adults unable to control themselves?"

She stood up. "No. What's ridiculous is that I don't care." She hooked her fingers over his belt and stood on tiptoes to kiss him. "Now do me, dammit."

Laughing, he scooped her closer and swung her around so that he was seated on the bench, sliding his hands down her sides and hips, running down her thighs and calves, simply absorbing her through touch alone. She bent to kiss him again, and he unbuttoned her blouse while their mouths found each other… and found each other hungry.

She shivered at the feel of his hands on her midriff, and straightened up, grasping his shoulders, while he trailed his lips across her stomach and nuzzled her navel. He tugged at her slacks, pulling them slowly down her hips, not minding that they caught at her panties and pulled those along too.

Her skin was so silky soft, and he helped her step out of the offending clothing and shoes, immediately putting his mouth to her heat and investigating all the places he could make her sigh and squirm and whimper with desire. He cupped her ass and urged her closer, and with mouth and tongue alone it didn't take very long to turn her into quivering, gasping jelly. She raised one foot on the bench next to him, offering herself—her need—up again, and he gave her what she wanted, because he wanted it too. He always wanted her to feel the most pleasure possible. Bringing her ecstasy brought him as much joy as it brought her.

It also brought him a powerful erection most of the time, which Juliet knew perfectly well.

"Get those pants off," she commanded, her trembling belying the force of her words.

Lassiter obeyed—he would have anyway—and guided her to straddle his lap. He leaned back as she fit herself around him, her feet against the wall as they connected deeply.

She kissed him with a heat suitable for jet fuel, fingers anxious in his hair, thighs hot against his, making sounds of primal pleasure which enveloped him in all-out flame for her, a flame which engulfed them both and left them ruined, clinging together on the bench in a closet not intended for this activity.

He could not imagine loving or wanting or needing anyone more. He could not imagine what would become of him if she ever left.

Coasting back to reality, but staying connected and close, Juliet shocked him by asking, "Did you love Victoria?"

He stared at her, into her remarkable blue-gray eyes, and it never occurred to him to lie or hedge. "Yes."

"When did you stop?"

"Long before the separation, but it took me a few years to see it."

"Do you miss her?"

"Never."

Juliet kissed him, intently and too-briefly. "If you saw her today on the street and didn't know her, would you want her? Would you ask her out?"

He wrapped his arms tightly around her, hands sliding up her back under the blouse. "I doubt it."

"Why not? Wasn't she pretty?"

"She was, but—"

"If you weren't with me. If you didn't know me," she interrupted, wiggling a little in his lap, obviously still not quite... done.

"I don't know. I don't really think of women—actual 3-D women—as being… attainable." He nibbled her lips, holding her firm against him, not that it stopped her wiggling.

"What are you talking about?" She was getting out of breath again as she moved.

"I have no social life, O'Hara. I don't really have friends. I'm not allowed to get involved with witnesses or suspects. Women who get to know me don't like me. So yeah, I might see a woman and think she was hot, but doing something about it? What's the point? I'd be better off surfing the 'net for porn."

Juliet settled her warm sexy mouth on his, her tongue insistent and delicious. He was confused by these questions but not by her signals. She could easily go 'round again, and if she kept moving exactly the way she was moving in his lap, he'd be on the way himself.

"I love you," she said, her tone almost angry.

"I know. Thank God."

"You're a treasure, Carlton. You are."

He shifted a little and kissed her hard, hearing her gasp and feeling her heat so very erotically enveloping him. "You get to keep me."

"I intend to. And if," she said, punctuating this with another kiss, "you ever leave me," … pause for another kiss… "I will rent a billboard telling all other women what kind of loving, loyal, dedicated man they can find in you." Deeper kiss. Hungry as if they were just starting up.

"Juliet," he managed. "I will _never_ leave you."

"Did you ever say that to Victoria?"

He pulled away and stared at her. "If I did, I was an idiot."

Her expression was unreadable. "You thought you loved her."

"I did, but that was a long time ago. So long. And it didn't last. And I never, ever, even once, felt about her the way I feel about you. I _never_ loved her the way I love you. I'll never love _anyone_ the way I love you."

Now a smile lit her beautiful face, and Lassiter felt his confusion fading as his arousal increased. "Good," she said emphatically.

"But why are you in the least bit insecure? My God, you're beautiful, desirable, sought-after—why the hell would you think any other woman could get my interest?"

Juliet sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. "Because I'm afraid if any other woman figures out what I know, she might try to steal you. And I won't lose you, Carlton. Not ever. To anyone. Not even iPad porn. You understand?"

Her unexpected possessiveness—enhanced by the rather intimate position they were in—fueled his desire anew. "I understand, and you are so getting done again," he said, and with that, unhooked her bra and took her nipple in his mouth without further delay.

"Which was my evil plan all along," she gasped out, head back, arching into his ministrations.

He knew better.

But he liked her plan anyway.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	5. Chapter 5: Ministrations

**CHAPTER FIVE: Ministrations**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"You're not the first attorney to ever be lied to by a client, Roman." Carlton's tone was dismissive, and Juliet agreed with him.

But Roman didn't. He took it personally. He asked with more belligerence than one would expect from a 5'7" lightweight, "Are you saying I'm stupid, Detective? Gullible? Easily led?"

Carlton frowned at him. "No, I'm saying criminals can lie very convincingly."

They were outside the furniture store where Shawn Spencer had done a big reveal to prove Roman's client Joe Blume was in fact the murderer—which Blume abruptly stopped denying—and most of the players were already on the way back to the station.

Blume persisted, "But I'd have to be stupid not to catch it, right? After fifteen years in this line of work?"

"Mr. Roman," Juliet interrupted, "no one's saying you're stupid. This happens all the time. Suspects lie to everyone."

"I don't represent criminals!" he shouted at her.

"Easy," Carlton advised sharply. "Don't take that tone with my partner."

"I'll take it with you, then, _Ass_iter!" With that, he swung at Carlton.

The element of surprise allowed his fist to connect with Carlton's jaw, shoving him back against the Crown Vic, and while he was down, Roman kicked at his legs and went on shouting.

Juliet went after him—partly because it was her job and partly because _how dare he hit her man_—but the attorney's rage allowed him to fling her off, during which time Carlton got to his feet and put a quick end to the altercation with a punch to the nose and an assist to Juliet in getting the idiot cuffed.

"You're under arrest for assaulting two police officers," Juliet snapped, twisting his wrists a little more roughly than she needed to click the cuffs in place.

"Which answers the question about whether you're stupid," Carlton added, rubbing his jaw. "And I suggest you exercise your right to remain silent, nimrod."

**. . . . **

**. . .**

Lassiter's face ached, as did his back where he'd hit the car door hard on his way down. He'd popped a couple of Aleve and let Juliet talk him into a few minutes with an ice pack on his jaw, but he was more concerned about the way she was processing Roman: he wasn't used to her staying this angry with a perp.

He was a little flattered, but didn't think he should be. He'd been on the receiving end of a fist before in her presence and they'd both had minor injuries from incidents like this in the past. Was her own ego bruised?

Karen Vick came out of her office, glanced at him and went to Juliet's desk to speak quietly.

Juliet glanced at him too, then back at Karen in what appeared to be consternation. She turned pink—Lassiter began to feel alarmed—and then composed herself. He heard her clearly say, "Yes, Chief, I will," before Vick, with another glance to Lassiter, returned to her office.

Juliet came to his side. "I'm under orders to take you home."

"_What_? I'm fine, O'Hara."

"Orders," she repeated. Her blue-gray eyes were a bit wide.

"What else did she say?"

"I'll tell you in the car. Come on. Now."

Lassiter knew better than to argue with that tone of voice, and very soon he was a reluctant passenger in his Ford Fusion while Juliet drove them to his condo.

She'd pretty much moved in a few months earlier and they often shared a ride to the station, and so far there had been only a few questions about that; once or twice they'd toss off a line about saving gas by carpooling. He was surprised Spencer hadn't sussed them out yet. If he'd spent his nights at Juliet's, they'd have been busted a long time ago, but since Juliet was able to park in the private garage for his condo building, no one passing could see her Bug there.

"So what did Vick say?" he persisted.

To his surprise, she turned pink again. "First she said to get you home. I said you'd argue with me." She gave him a look, daring him to challenge her; he wisely kept quiet. "So she said I should use my feminine wiles as your partner in more than just work."

"Ah, _hell_," he said with feeling.

Her hands were tight on the steering wheel. "I said I didn't know what she meant by that, and she reminded me she was pretty good at her job and while she appreciated that we'd been discreet so far, she wasn't above using our relationship to be sure you got the rest and recovery time you needed."

"Crap. _Crap_. Dammit, she wasn't supposed to find out like this."

"I'm glad she figured it out on her own," Juliet retorted. "There's been at least four times she might have walked in on us and had to fire us on the spot."

"Six," he mused, "if you count the times I—"

"Seven," she interrupted, "if you count the time I did it to you, but the point is, we _could_ have been found out in very bad ways."

"Or outed by Spencer."

"That, too." She shivered. "Anyway, I'm glad to have a reason to get home early. I've been looking for an excuse to pamper you."

Lassiter's interest was piqued. "What do you have in mind?"

She shrugged, pulling into his parking space in the garage. "Shower, massage. No big deal."

He grasped her arm before she could get out of the car, and drew her close for a kiss. "It's a big deal."

Juliet grinned. "Then you'll thank me for it later, won't you?"

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She guided him into the bedroom and urged him out of his clothes, noting with renewed annoyance and concern the beginnings of the bruise caused by his collision with the car. His jaw was beginning to show its own bruise, and she kissed him tenderly, stroking the skin lightly.

"Shower," she commanded, patting him on the butt (and a nice trim butt it was) as he remarkably obediently went down the hall to the bathroom.

Truth was, she was royally pissed off at Roman. Truth was, she got pissed off _any_ time someone attacked Carlton, even before he was _her_ Carlton, but today, she'd wanted to kill the attorney.

_This is why partners aren't supposed to get involved_, said the sensible little voice.

_Stuff it_, she said back. She and Carlton were locked together for life now, and there would be no disentanglements of any kind ever if she had any say in the matter.

She put out some lotion and a towel, then stripped off her own clothes and followed his path to the bathroom.

Carlton did not object to her joining him in the shower. She stood on tiptoes to kiss him, and while the water cascaded over both of them, his wet hands slid down to cup her bottom as his lips moved silkily across hers. "I feel better already," he murmured, his so-blue eyes reflecting his desire.

So did she. Rubbing her body against his, feeling the delightful friction of water and soap and love, she was reluctant to separate herself from him, but nonetheless made him turn around so she could wash his back. Gentle where the bruise was forming below his shoulder blade, she washed his skin and peppered it with kisses, and then put her arms around him, resting her cheek on his back while caressing his abdomen and parts south.

Carlton sighed and murmured her name, his hands moving to guide hers. He was already aroused, as she could well feel, and after a few minutes he turned around again, enclosing her in his arms, his erection between them demanding attention.

He took over the sponge and began to wash her, which had not been her intention—she was there to take care of _him_—but once his fingers began to slide all over her wet body she pretty much lost all inclination to argue the point.

He lifted her left leg and she took the cue to balance her foot on the edge of the tub. With one hand he went to work where she was warmest and wettest; he wrapped the other arm around her shoulders, holding her close, bracing her, and when it was time he slid into her smoothly, deeply, kissing her with surprisingly languorous intensity.

The sound of the water was accompaniment to fast breathing and moans. Juliet arched against Carlton as his thrusts deepened and like every other time they'd made love, she was blown away by the utter completion she felt with this man.

He lowered his head to suckle at her nipples, to lick away droplets of water from between her breasts even as more water overtook his efforts, and he sighed out her name.

Her orgasm was fierce and spurred his, and she was left limp, cradled in his arms, as the water began to cool.

"That wasn't supposed to happen," she managed, letting him towel her off a few minutes later.

"Sorry, no do-overs." He was a bit smug, and she enjoyed how the light of his amusement turned his eyes a brighter blue.

"You're still getting that massage, you know."

"I'm counting on it."

Juliet examined his jaw again. "Did it hurt when we kissed?"

"Not enough to make me stop." Another wicked grin.

She laughed and pushed him down the hall, still nude. "To the bedroom with you, beastie."

"Yes, officer." He needed no directions, and lay on the bed on his back while she toweled her hair.

"You are a fine-looking man," she said appreciatively. He was in shape without being muscle-bound; she loved his long legs and the damp fur on his chest.

"You are a fine-looking _woman_." His eyes were on her breasts, but he grinned when she threw the towel at him. "Well, you _are_."

"On your stomach." She climbed up beside him, kneeling by his side and warming the lotion with her hands while he obeyed, turning his head on the pillow so he could see her. "And close those big blue eyes, please."

With a sigh, he obeyed, and she went to work.

Sex in the shower had relaxed him pretty damned well, so there wasn't a lot of tension for her to work out of his muscles.

But she did very much enjoy stroking his body, and Carlton clearly enjoyed it too. The lotion was silky between her fingers and his skin, and she lengthened the stroking to cover the distance between the back of his neck all the way down to his ass and upper thighs.

Dipping her fingers between his thighs elicited an "mmmmm" from her man which had a different timbre than the others, and she herself was already feeling plenty of _mmmmm_ herself.

She stroked his hips, curling her fingers under his body from time to time, making him shiver, and transferred her attentions to his arms, from shoulders to the palms of his hands.

Carlton said thickly, "I really want to turn over now."

Instead, she returned to the skin of his thighs, sliding between again, stroking from knee all the way up and then down again.

He said more clearly and indeed more desperately, "Please."

Allowing it, she took more lotion in her hands—noting with pride another impressive erection in the works—and started the torture at his shoulders, working her way down his abdomen. She could feel his racing heartbeat, there and at his wrists, and without ceremony she parted his thighs and knelt between them.

She spent more time on his stomach and sides, slipping her hands up to caress his nipples and play with his chest hair before moving back to his navel and groin.

Wide blue eyes, dark with desire. "Let me touch you," he said.

"Not yet." She wasn't ready to stop stroking him—avoiding only the part of his body he most wanted her to touch—because she really loved the feel of his skin and the knowledge that she was driving him insane and anyway it was only a matter of time before he broke and—

He clamped his hands around her wrists. "I'm taking you _now_," he said decisively.

With this (not that she fought), he reversed their positions, and his mouth was on her moments later.

His black and silver hair, still damp from the shower, felt silken against her thighs; it was a bonus sensation to everything else, including the deliciously long-fingered warm hand which wandered up to caress her breast while he drove her mad.

She moaned in intense pleasure; he was so very damned good at what he was doing. His mouth and tongue and fingers knew every possible way to awake every single nerve ending, particularly there… and _there_… and _oh dear God right there_. "Carlton," she gasped.

He ignored her and continued pushing her to an orgasm she would never forget, and no sooner had she crested it than he was doing it again.

Juliet was very nearly crying with ecstasy before he ended the torment, moved up her body and kissed her hard, so hard, sliding himself inside her with the utmost surety, filling her with velvet heat—insistent, demanding, taking what she gave and giving it back tenfold.

She was half-sobbing, her fingers gripping his shoulders, no doubt leaving new marks on the skin she'd just been trying to soothe. His mouth was as voracious as the rest of his body, silencing her moans with kisses made entirely of fire. When she opened her eyes she could only see the deep blue depths of his, and that was all she ever wanted to see: his love. His need. His completion of her—of _them_.

Evening came and settled over the room, over their still-trembling bodies.

Carlton stroked her hair gently, kissing the side of her face. "Is it redundant to tell you how much I love you?"

"Never," she whispered, rolling into his arms, weak and exhausted and never happier.

"Are you going to report the exact nature of your TLC to Vick?"

Juliet laughed. "I don't think so." She kissed his bruised jaw lightly. "I think she'll know I did my best."

"You surprise me every time," he whispered. "Your heart surprises me every time."

Tears came to her eyes. "Oh, Carlton. It's because my heart is yours now."

He sighed profoundly. "Then between the two of us, we have enough heart for ten people."

"Except Roman," she said.

Carlton laughed. "Yeah, except Roman. Though I don't know, honey. He did lead to all this today."

Juliet pushed him onto his back and straddled him. "Fair enough, but we're not dropping the charges."

"No, we're not." He smiled up at her. "But I might give him a number for a good lawyer."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	6. Chapter 6: Sunshine

**CHAPTER SIX: Sunshine**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_If I may borrow a term from HFCE, here's an unceremonious little __**smutlet**__. And btw, I don't really know what's come over me. I promise you I am not this smut-oriented in my daily life. _

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They stood on the balcony looking down at the hotel pool below, where the wedding reception was being set up. The bride and criminal groom were about to leave for the church and Juliet and Lassiter had an hour or more to kill before going down to infiltrate the reception.

He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzling her ear.

"Hey," she murmured appreciatively, turning her head to kiss him lightly. "That's sexy stuff."

"As sexy as this?" He slid one hand down her stomach, and she laughed, until he deftly worked his way under her gauzy skirt, and then she didn't think it was funny anymore.

"Ohhh... no, what you're doing right now is a lot sexier." She shivered, leaning back against him, most definitely not objecting to his activity.

Lassiter kissed her ear again, letting his fingers wander under her panties, ever downward, to where the heat between her legs summoned him.

"Would you rather relocate to the bed?" she suggested breathlessly.

"No," he growled against her hair.

They were on the tenth floor and the balconies were recessed. Someone might hear them, but no one could see them short of having high-powered binoculars from a boat out on the water, and he couldn't spot any vessels at all, let alone swimmers with telephoto-lens cameras.

They were undercover, which was unusual. But Chief Vick had called them in last week and said matter-of-factly, with the door firmly closed, that while everyone agreed undercover work was not Lassiter's forte, she thought they could handle this one, now that she was aware of their personal relationship.

"You're posing as newlyweds," she said. "You need to be at the hotel the day Prather gets married, because all the intel says his two rivals Butler and Cena are going to be at the reception, either for a summit or a showdown. And the truth is," she added, "I could have given you cases like this a long time ago, but after the speed-dating fiasco a few years back, Lassiter, I wasn't sure you'd be able to lighten up enough to make it work."

Getting past his embarrassment, and realizing she was not only _not_ censuring them but also being very practical about work applications of her discovery of their relationship, Lassiter had focused on the details of the case in record time. He and Juliet had all the player names, they had the faces memorized, and they knew who to look for and when, once the reception got going.

But right now, he opted to focus on pleasuring the love of his life, and there was something incredibly erotic about doing so here on the balcony.

"No one can see," he whispered, and Juliet sighed.

The balcony was waist-high. Lassiter tugged her skirt and panties down and kicked them away. Remaining behind her, he sent his hands exploring her silky-smooth stomach and thighs and the rising heat between them, and she shuddered with desire.

He loved that he could reduce her to a quivering heap every time, because it went both ways. She could do it to him, too.

"You make me crazy," she said, and that went both ways, too.

She pushed back against his body as he relentlessly stroked her to a powerful rolling orgasm—his free hand cupping her breast through her silky bra, under the gauzy top—and he knew she could feel him hard behind her.

There was nothing for it, nothing, really, but for him to take her right here, just like this.

He couldn't, though, not out on this balcony.

So when Juliet whispered the suggestion to him, he froze at first. He had only intended to bring her to orgasm and then take her inside to the bed. But she was whispering that she wanted him here, now. In the sunshine. In the open. Private, but so very open.

"Are you sure?" he whispered back.

"Yes, please. Please, Carlton." Her voice was ragged.

Her hands gripped the balcony rail while he unzipped and removed his khakis and shorts, and he guided her to stand with her legs further apart, because what Juliet wanted he could not help but give her.

His eyes were blind to the vast blue ocean; he could only see the feelings; she turned her head and kissed him, sighing, little moans escaping as he moved against her, into her, and she moved back against him.

It went on forever, moments stretching out into eternity. Juliet clung to the railing and moaned out her pleasure and he anchored himself to her; the only way to make it better would be if they were face-to-face, and having formed this thought, he acted on it, swinging them away from the railing abruptly and turning her as he set her on the glass-topped table, parting her trembling legs again.

They kissed hungrily as he returned himself to her endlessly velvety heat, and this was what made it perfect—being able to look into her blue-gray eyes and see—feel—_absorb_—the passion he was feeling everywhere else, in every cell, every atom, every molecule of his body, and quite possibly hers.

The table moved with them, metal legs screeching a bit on the balcony floor, but neither one cared, because they were together in this mind-blowing, mind-numbing, mind-losing frenzy of pleasure.

When it was over—as if it were ever _really_ over—he gathered her to him and carried her back into the hotel room, almost ready to collapse.

Juliet pulled off her top and bra and draped herself on him, feverishly unbuttoning his shirt and covering him with shaky kisses, finally settling her lush mouth on his and infusing him with love and more desire—there was _always_ more.

"I love you," she said almost desperately. "I love you so much, Carlton."

"I love you back, sweetheart. You're everything." She was. He could imagine no other woman ever being this all-encompassingly important to him.

Her eyes searched his while she caressed his face and slipped her fingers into his hair. "How is it always better? Every time?"

Lassiter's heart was pounding. "It's you. Somehow you're able to improve on perfection."

"It was never like that with anyone else," she countered. "I think it must be you."

"Then it's us," he said quietly.

Juliet smiled. "It is."

"It's _us_." He kissed her slowly and tenderly, holding her warm soft body to his, and the moment went on in shimmering perfection, one of many so far, and God willing, one of many to come.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	7. Chapter 7: Slopes

**CHAPTER SEVEN: Slopes**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_[HFCE suggested a ski trip… this probably isn't quite what she had in mind, but since I know nothing about skiing, it's the best ski-smut I could do.]  
><em>

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"You want me to _what_?"

Juliet's heart sank at the disbelief in Carlton's wide blue eyes. Was it terror, or revulsion?

"I'm sorry," he added quickly, obviously trying to relax. "I just can't imagine why they would want anything like that."

"Anything like what? You're my guy. The love of my life. Of course they want to meet you."

"They met me before and thought I was an ass," he said darkly. "Not that they were wrong."

Juliet sighed. "Carlton, stop. That was over four years ago. They barely remember you."

He frowned. "I'm not sure if that makes me feel better, and you know it's not true. The adults thought I was a jerk for not bringing any food and your nephews thought I was—"

She put her hand over his mouth. "Stop. You didn't bring any food because I didn't warn you about the tradition. And my nephews are all in high school now and probably forgot the whole thing. My aunt Olivia and her husband John weren't even there that year, and my stepdad has the memory of a gnat. Besides, it's not the whole family—just Olivia, John and my folks."

"On a ski trip. I don't ski, O'Hara."

"Neither do I. Neither do they! We're from Miami, for God's sake."

He was genuinely puzzled, the familiar frown line marring his forehead. "So you want to put six adults, one of whom has a reputation as a jerk, into a situation guaranteed to make everyone as uncomfortable as possible?"

She got up from the table and stalked to the sink, rinsing out her cup with enough force to bang it on the edge of the faucet.

"I'm sorry," he said wearily, coming to stand behind her. "Please just—"

As his arms circled her waist, she leaned back against him, sighing. "The ski trip was their idea. They asked me to join them and I asked if you could come. They said yes without hesitation. We don't have to ski—we can go walking or sledding or snow-tubing and drink a lot of cocoa and sit by the fire and talk. It's only for a weekend and if you wanted a chance to make a good impression on my folks, now's the time."

Carlton's arms tightened. "What if I can't do that? What if it's too late?"

"It's not too late," she assured him, turning to slide more fully into his grasp. "And even if it was, so what? _I_ love you and it doesn't matter what happens up there. I'm still yours no matter what."

He still seemed unhappy. "Don't get me wrong. Of course I'll go. I'd go to hear Olympia Dukakis speak at the Democratic Convention if you asked me to. I just reserve the right to freak out about it."

Juliet smiled and pulled him down for a long, savory kiss. "As long as you let me soothe you in a risque manner of my choosing."

Finally her blue-eyed man smiled. "Well, that's part of the incentive for freaking out." He slid his hands down to cup her derriere. "Would you like to soothe me now?"

She slid her hands around to cup _his_. "I've only just begun."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter was tense. More so than usual. Actually he hadn't been as tense "as usual" in the past seven or eight months, since Juliet had burst out of his dreams and into his reality, so the kind of tense he was _now_ had to be measured against an old standard.

In short, he could go off at any minute.

They had arrived at the ski resort ahead of her family, and Juliet was happily unpacking their stuff while he stood tensely at the window looking tensely out at the snow, feeling tense about being forced to ski (he had exaggerated with her before; he _knew_ how to ski, but it had been decades and he wasn't at all sure he should be allowed to do it in public after all this time), but not nearly as tense as he felt about having to make a good impression on her mother, her step-dad (forget making a good impression on Frank O'Hara; it was nothing to Lassiter to be disliked—if it came to that—by a con artist), her aunt and uncle.

Juliet had promised they were all nice people, and since she was "nice people" herself he knew they would, in all likelihood, be at least civil to him.

But they weren't really the problem.

_He_ was the problem.

He had always excelled at unwittingly alienating people, particularly when he didn't want to. It still was a mystery to him that Juliet, having lasted so long as his partner, _still_ somehow came to love him and make love to him and let him make love to her (suddenly he felt less tense)... but what if he screwed it up with her family again? What if it made her question her future with him?

Okay, tense again.

"Relax," she called from the other side of the room.

"How?" He said it mostly to the window, miserable now with fear.

"Carlton." She crossed the room and tugged at his arm. "Look at me."

He did, seeing the concern in her eyes, mixed with abundant love. "It's going to kill me to embarrass you."

"Stop," she pleaded, hugging him. "You're going to be fine."

He hugged her back, trying to achieve a facsimile of calm. He'd been holding steady in the weeks since she'd asked him about the trip, but today, now that it was happening, he was a basket case. "It's not too late to hire someone to pretend to be me."

Juliet laughed, squeezing him hard. "No. My mother remembers your eyes. She said she'd never seen eyes that blue in her life."

"They'll be closed when I go into a fetal position," he muttered.

"That's it." She stepped back and dragged him over to the bed, pushing him to sit. "Lie down."

"O'Hara, I don't—"

"Yes you do, and so do I." She pointed to the bedside clock. "They won't be in from the airport for another two hours." She pulled her sweater up over her head. "Why are you still dressed?"

"I'm not in a mood conducive to..." He trailed off. "Oh."

"Maybe you are?"

"Maybe I am." He was mesmerized, just like always, as she unhooked her bra and cast it aside, giving him a chance to look her over before she climbed up on the bed and straddled him. "Yeah, I could be."

"If we have to come back here and have sex every time you start to get nervous, so be it." She went after his belt, smiling. "Now take your shirt off, Lassiter."

"No," he said, grasping her arms and pulling her down to lie on top of him. "Just let me hold you a while."

"Oh," she said, sounding surprised and touched, and obligingly snuggled herself against his body. "I'd like that, too."

"I'm not saying _no_ to sex, you understand."

"I understand." Amusement was in her tone.

He stroked her hair, slowly running his fingers through its soft thick golden length, caressing her bare shoulders and making her shiver a little. Her head rested on his chest, and he felt himself calming, relaxing.

It was always best to be with her. From the early days of their partnership, she had been able to calm him down, usually with just a look, sometimes with words. Initially he calmed himself down because he knew her "look" was a warning he was crossing a line with a suspect or a witness or even Vick, but then in time, he only had to glance at her; it became less and less of a struggle to "behave." She was a salve whether or not he thought he needed her, and everything was better with her.

"I love you," he murmured. "You know how much."

"I know." She patted his chest, looking up and nuzzling his jaw lightly.

"But I _am_ afraid sometimes."

"You don't need to be."

He kept his tone even. "I'm afraid you'll see me through everyone else's eyes."

"Would that be so bad?"

"Yes. Because then you might ask yourself what the hell you're doing with a guy like me."

She lifted her head again and stared at him. "Carlton. Does anyone know you as well as I do? I mean, really? As an adult?"

He met her gaze. "No."

"And I've known you for seven years now, right?"

He traced a line across her perfect mouth. "Yes."

"Good, bad, light, dark, strong, weak—caff, decaf—I know you. As much as you let yourself be known."

Lassiter let his fingertips trace her cheek now. "I have no secrets from you. Just things we haven't had occasion to talk about yet."

"Okay. So let's say my mom decides you're a douchebag."

Despite himself, he laughed at the unexpectedness of her word choice. "Uh, sure?"

"Or whackaloon, if you prefer," she added with a smile. "So what if she does? How does that affect what_ I_ know about you?"

"It doesn't. But it'll be hard for you to know the most important people in your life don't like the man you love."

"Carlton," she whispered, sliding up a little to kiss him. "_You_ are the most important person in my life. You have been for years. Even if the entire family moved up here from Florida just to hate you, there's no way it would affect my feelings. I'd suggest we transfer out, that's all."

He searched her gaze, seeing only the same love and tenderness which cut through all of his defenses, just like always.

"Okay?" she persisted.

Lassiter kissed her in response.

"Okay?" she asked again more insistently.

"Yes, and now I feel like skiing," he answered, and rolled her onto her back. "All over you. With my tongue."

Her lovely eyes widened, and her smile was slightly wicked. "Be my guest."

Lassiter dispensed with her jeans and panties quickly, and while she watched, he got out of his own clothing as well. He kissed her sweet lips, gentle at first and then harder, feeling her soft skin pressed to his body as the kiss deepened and intensified.

He loved her body, and loved his effect on her. It wasn't ego; he simply knew _this_ woman wanted and sought out and appreciated _his_ touch. She didn't have to tell him so, although she did—he knew it by her reactions.

Turning her to jello was aphrodisiac for him. Each shudder and sigh aroused him more than almost anything else she could say or do, and that was saying a lot, because she could certainly do a hell of a lot for him, and had.

Right now he trailed kisses down her throat, pinning her hands by her shoulders. He "skied" a path between her breasts and then up their slopes, circling and engulfing her nipples, making them hard before sliding down again to her abdomen.

Juliet was already moaning a little, wriggling just a bit. He admonished her to keep still, at which she laughed, and his answering laughter must have rumbled against her skin because she shivered and whispered his name.

He let go of her hands as his skier tongue meandered down her stomach, across to the curve of her hips and then over to her navel, circling there. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, caressing his neck and sliding into his hair while he teased the skin around her navel, moving slowly, slowly, southward.

Her shudder of anticipation aroused him even more, and he grasped her hips to hold her steady as he wandered into the ultimate skier's valley between her soft warm thighs.

There was no way to express to her how much he loved exploring her here, just here, in this intimate, welcoming heat. He kissed her inner thighs, licking and kissing and nuzzling, and when he registered her anxious words and movements, he finally let his mouth go to where he knew she most wanted him.

Juliet sighed profoundly, thrusting her hips up despite his attempts to keep her still, but he managed to ride out the motion, relentlessly pushing and suckling and stroking to drive her to what her moans and writhing indicated was a tremendous orgasm. She bucked against his mouth, wanting more, and gasped out, "Need… longer… tongue…"

Lassiter took this as his cue to slide back up her silky body and drive himself home, deeply and ravenously kissing her as he took her, feeling her legs hooking around his thighs as he pushed into her again and again, fierce and intent and lost in the passion between them.

Her arms clutched at him, not letting him away from her torso, and nothing was better, nothing—connected everywhere, hard and sure and desperate and complete.

Complete.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton braced himself up on his arms, still breathing hard, and said, "I think I can meet your family now."

"I think they can ski by themselves," Juliet countered, loving the emotion in his vivid blue eyes. "I'd rather stay here and do this again."

He smiled and sank back down against her. "It's the only skiing I do well."

Juliet sighed and kissed his cheek and chin and forehead. "I love you, Carlton Lassiter. You and your ski pole are welcome in my bed any time."

Carlton laughed and kissed her back. His warm weight on her was wonderful, sexy, loving. "I still think they're not going to like me, but now I don't care."

She shifted underneath him, so that one of his thighs was between her legs. "They _are_ going to like you, but now you understand I don't care either?"

"Yeah," he murmured, moving his thigh against her. "I do."

She pushed up to meet the pressure of that thigh. "We still have time for more, you know."

He growled something unintelligible, sending his hand down between them, and Juliet arched involuntarily at his touch. "Then we'll have more," he said clearly, and whatever she might have said in response was silenced by his intent kiss.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The rest of the weekend went fairly well. He was nervous, but her family didn't hate him, the skiing was uneventful, and Juliet loved him, so nothing else seemed very important by comparison.

There were two times his tension threatened to take over. The first time, Juliet found a reason to excuse them from the conversation, took him back to their room, stripped off his clothes and quite simply ravished him. Afterward, he wasn't quite sure who he was.

The second time, when they were in town sightseeing and he'd inadvertently made a few snarky remarks about other tourists, she said there was another shop she wanted to check out, got him in their rental car, drove until they ended up at the end of a deserted lane and then did things to him in the front seat which he would have sworn could only be done in the back seat.

It was an effective method of distraction, he had to admit, and she was only slightly smug about it.

But she was certainly surprised when he suggested another ski trip in the future… and not at all surprised when he amended it with, "Only no family."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	8. Chapter 8: Professionals

**CHAPTER EIGHT: Professionals**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They had to go to a seminar in San Francisco, which should have been a good thing, a break from the norm if nothing else.

But it was a bad thing, because they couldn't share a room.

It was a worse thing, because Marian Deloro from the Commissioner's Office and Stan Monoghan from the city's public relations department also had to go, so Juliet was paired up with Marian and Carlton with Stan.

Juliet was cranky about the whole thing, which meant Carlton was ten times crankier.

They put on their professional faces for Vick, who while having voiced no objection to their so-far discreet relationship, was unmoved by their unspoken plight. Her opinion, expressed with a frown, was that they should suck it up and spend three nights apart, making nice with the other officials.

The problem was they hadn't spent a night apart in the last ten months, and both liked it that way. They didn't _always_ make love, but they were always together at night, and both liked it that way, too, because it felt as if it should always have been thus.

They couldn't even travel on their own; the city had efficiently arranged for the four of them to fly up late on Sunday afternoon and back again early Wednesday morning—and their seats were on opposite sides of the plane.

By the time they were squeezed into the taxi on the way to the hotel, Juliet was grateful merely to have an excuse to be pressed up against Carlton in the back seat.

His expressive blue eyes told her he was grateful too, and he managed to find and squeeze her hand out of sight of the others, under cover of his briefcase.

She thought, bemused, _we made love just this morning, and yet the sensation of his thigh against mine makes me feel like it's been months instead of hours_.

That it would be three days before they could be alone again was depressing.

He squeezed her hand again hard, and both of them sighed.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

At the hotel, while checking in, Marian insisted they have dinner immediately, as she needed to eat at regular times and they might as well, right?

Yeah, okay. Lassiter figured he could have at least one large drink to take the edge off.

He was seated across from Juliet—he'd rather have been next to her—but the up side was being able to _look_ at her. He considered playing footsie but didn't trust himself quite that much.

Stan was taciturn, which suited Lassiter. He didn't want to make small talk. Marian was talkative enough for two, however, and Juliet, despite being far more polite and generally sociable than he, was clearly tiring of the woman's need to keep the conversation going. And going. And going.

It wasn't until Stan started talking about wood carving that things improved and simultaneously got worse. Marian's interest was in antique furniture, so the two of them waxed rhapsodic about the way wood could be both hard and soft, smooth and firm; their word choices were almost erotic.

Lassiter stopped following the conversation per se; he was hearing words and phrases like Allen head, and finger joint, and two legs joined at a pivot hinge, and cupping, and the hold down clamp, and hollow grinding, and Mission style, and pith as the soft core in the center of a log, and needless to say, tongue and groove just about did him in.

He met Juliet's wide-eyed gaze and knew she was as helplessly aroused as he was.

_ We have to get out of here._

He sent this psychic message to Juliet via a meaningful stare.

She faked getting a text, faked that it was about a case back home, and faked having to go make a call. Lassiter faked nothing; he pulled out enough money for their share of the tab and handed it to Stan. "Catch up with you later," he said tersely, and followed Juliet.

But where could they go?

Standing in the lobby, Juliet said quietly, "Just ten minutes alone. That's all I need."

It was a twenty-story hotel, and Lassiter tried to think logically despite the lack of oxygen to his brain. "Come on," he said, and led her to the elevator. Pushing 20—their damnably separate rooms were on 6—he checked for an elevator camera before kissing her, and they stayed connected until the doors opened.

"Why this floor?" she asked breathlessly.

He didn't answer; he was looking for the stairwell, and once he found it, he pulled her up the stairs to where they would have had access to the roof if that door wasn't locked. The point was to be somewhere most people wouldn't be, and the top of the stairs in a 20-story building was a great place to find no other people.

Juliet was already smiling, drawing him to her against the wall in the unlit upper landing.

Lassiter kissed her hard, his tongue invading her mouth, one hand sliding under her skirt.

Gasping, she gave as good as she got, and he lifted one of her legs to wrap around his hip, fitting himself so perfectly to her that they might as well not have been dressed at all. They ground together, in this sudden frenzy, and he growled, "You have no idea how much I want you," making her flush with desire.

"Yes I do," she whispered back.

His mouth moved to the collar of her blouse, seeking the bare skin underneath, and one of her hands now came up to slide between the buttons of his shirt, caressing his chest, no doubt feeling his pounding heart.

He cupped her breast, then impatiently pulled the fabric of her blouse and bra aside so he could put his tongue to her nipple. She was hard up against the wall and next thing he knew both her legs were up off the floor, completely wrapped around him, and he was grinding against her, and this was a kind of utter madness that seemed unstoppable.

Yet he stopped it. He knew they couldn't do this here.

Juliet moaned, "Carlton, please. I need more."

"Juliet, we can't…"

"We have to. I'll die."

He laughed, but it wasn't funny, because he felt a bit as if he might die, too. "We have a problem."

"It's not a problem," she argued, her breath warm against his neck, and then the tip of her tongue tracing his earlobe made him forget the rest.

"Honey…" Yet he wasn't releasing her, was he? He wasn't disentangling their bodies.

Juliet sighed with frustration. "You _are_ making love to me, Carlton. Now." She worked one persistent hand between them, down to his zipper, down to the unmistakable hardness there, and once she touched him he was helpless.

He'd been helpless anyway, of course, but knowing she wanted it as much as he did was the final push over the edge.

Skirt up, pants down, _connected_; Lassiter kissed her hard to muffle their sounds of pleasure and if he hadn't still been wearing his shirt and jacket she'd have left marks as she clutched at him in her ecstasy.

It was always this good, always this intense, always this perfect. Not always this rushed, but that worked too.

He was surprised he didn't leave marks of his own where his hands pushed against the concrete wall during the final incredible moments before they imploded together.

Juliet's legs were shaking; he could feel the vibrations across his hips. "Oh my God," she whispered.

Lassiter gathered her closer, kissing and kissing her, and she undulated against him in post-orgasmic bliss.

"Best stairwell sex ever," he muttered, and she laughed.

"New for us." She rested her head against the wall, her legs still trembling a little. "We've had walls before but stairwells in public places—not our usual thing."

"Nothing is usual about us." He put his hands under her thighs. "You ready to stand?"

"No."

He didn't mind; being pressed up tight to her (still inside her) was fine by him, though the cool air on his bare backside was becoming more noticeable.

Juliet kissed him, her lips sweet and soft. "I guess we didn't do so good. Didn't even make it twelve hours."

"It's going to be a long few days."

Reluctantly, and very slowly, she released him, standing carefully as if she hadn't walked in a long time, and he sort of felt like that, too, weak and unsteady and slightly giddy.

They re-dressed, and sat on the steps for a few minutes to recover.

"I love you," she said softly.

"You're crazy," he countered, "but I love you too. Strumpet."

Juliet laughed. "Lothario."

"Yours," he said, and kissed her into silent agreement.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet was hard-pressed to make conversation with Marian when she got back to the room. She was just grateful that her near-sighted companion had temporarily misplaced her spectacles so she couldn't see exactly how disheveled Juliet was.

She quickly grabbed up what she needed and surveyed her appearance while waiting for the shower to warm up: she _did_ look ravished. Carlton had left his mark on her, but fortunately not on her neck where it could be seen by anyone else.

God, he was a fantastic lover. She could never resist him, at all, and everything about their sex life was amazing to her.

They'd talked about this trip and how it ought to be simple enough to not share a room, to not sleep side by side (or draped across each other), because they were both adults and this was no big deal.

Of course it _wasn't_ a big deal. It was just three nights apart, and they'd see each other during the day. But something about knowing they _couldn't_ be together, couldn't touch, couldn't just roll over into each other's arms—it was incredibly difficult.

He was only two doors down and she already missed him like crazy.

It didn't help at all to find he'd left her several inappropriate texts (featuring tongue-and-groove) by the time she was ready to slide into bed—exhausted and not at all sated—to which she of course had to respond equally inappropriately.

Marian, watching the news, asked her what she was laughing about so quietly over there in her bed, and Juliet told her a friend was making silly remarks.

But they weren't _silly_.

And sleep was a long time coming.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter didn't like people much. Sometimes he didn't mind them, but since he invariably found a way to alienate them without trying, he knew they didn't like him, so it saved time to start out not liking them first.

Juliet had always been the exception.

He liked her. He enjoyed her company. And this was _separate_ from being completely in love with her from head to toe.

At home, he was okay with the routine separations of the work day, of the morning jog, of appointments and court appearances and interrogations—all the usual reasons they couldn't be in each other's faces, as it were. Even before they got together, and he missed her at night, he still knew she'd be there come morning.

Technically this three-day trip should have been no exception. They were in the same place at the same time and they could see each other and brush up against each other and God knows they'd had a wild encounter in the stairwell last night… but still.

It was if, knowing he couldn't be with her, he instantly found her a hundred times more desirable.

Never mind how she toyed with her breakfast sausage before finally eating it this morning.

Never mind how she slowly licked strawberry jam off her fingertip.

Never mind how she looked at him when he bit into a creampuff while looking directly at her.

Never mind how he managed to drop his napkin on the floor, reached down for it, and somehow found reason to trail his hand up the inside of her calf before returning to a normal seated position, seeing her blue-gray eyes huge and a little angry but lit with a clear desire for him.

So it was a long day.

They had two sessions in the morning, Marian and Stan close at hand.

They had to attend a large luncheon with a keynote speaker who ran over, so there was no time for even a moment together before the afternoon sessions started.

Marian and Stan, however, went to a different afternoon session than the one they chose, and Lassiter thought, _by God, I am going to sit by my woman if I have to kill someone to do it_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The first session alone together. Juliet was relieved. She'd been dying for a moment or two with Carlton.

The hotel's ornate auditorium was large and long, and she paused on her way in only to claim a soda from the table at the door, then made her way directly to the very back corner seat against the wall, knowing her man would follow.

Carlton came to sit beside her. He smelled nice, and he looked good in his dark blue shirt, and she wanted to take it off of him immediately. "Finally," he said with a smile.

A large, sleepy-looking man came down their row and stopped five seats away, and he took up enough aisle space that Juliet was certain no one was going to try to get past him. The seats directly in front of them were empty—most responsible session-goers were closer to the front (or closer to the exits)—and she relaxed, because even this much solitude with Carlton was a blessing.

They both glanced up front, where it appeared there was going to be some sort of film. "I don't suppose it'll be a comedy," Carlton said dryly, and she agreed it was doubtful.

When everyone was seated, the speaker made a short speech about the films they were going to see, which would address statewide policies on law enforcement-related sexual harassment and grievance procedures.

Carlton whispered, "I should pay close attention to that first one."

Juliet smiled. "Me, too." She'd certainly initiated workplace mauling more than once.

The lights went out. Juliet bent to put her half-empty soda on the floor against the wall, and when she sat up again, Carlton's arm was across the back of her chair. She turned her head and murmured, "Smooth."

He smiled, lit by the flickering lights from up front. "I'm trying to be a playa."

"Uh-huh." But she didn't make him move it, and after a minute, when it was nicely dark all the way back in their corner, that arm curved around her, his hand gentle on her shoulder.

She sighed, breathing him in. This was what she'd been missing.

Carlton scooted his chair closer. The man five seats down seemed to be already asleep, and everyone in front of them was dutifully watching the film.

Juliet was already trembling.

"Tell me to leave you alone," he whispered, "and I will."

She couldn't, because she didn't really want him to.

"Tell me," he said again, lower.

"I can't," she whispered.

He smiled, and for a while they sat like that, his arm around her, his hand stroking her shoulder. But she honestly had no idea what was going on up on the screen, because she could only hear her heart, and feel his nearness, and smell his hair and his skin, and when he murmured, so low that no one on earth could have heard it but her, "Turn your head," she obeyed without question. He kissed her, so softly, so sensuously, his other hand coming up to cup her face as he sought her mouth.

It was wildly inappropriate, and wildly delicious.

Something happened in the film to make everyone laugh. Carlton pulled back, and she let out a huge, shaky sigh.

But it wasn't over; he kissed her ear, and her temple, and the hand which had cupped her face slipped between two buttons of her blouse, touching her bra, slipping under the cup to touch her skin, and Juliet shifted in her chair, aroused beyond all expectations.

He noted that, of course, and moved his hand down to her thighs, parting them while she tried hard not to moan out loud. His hand moved up between her legs, and she was perversely grateful she had worn slacks instead of a skirt, or there'd be some serious trouble coming up. His tongue traced her ear, while his hand stroked her thighs through the slacks, and she was trembling, trembling, about to burst with desire.

Juliet put her hand on his leg, squeezing.

Carlton slowed his pace.

She slid her hand up toward his crotch, and he stopped breathing.

She looked into his vivid blue eyes and smiled, and moved her hand a little higher. His eyes closed briefly, and for a few moments he seemed to forget where he was.

But then, in sweet retaliation, he moved the hand that rested between _her_ legs. Juliet arched against the chair, and had to bite her lip to stop from making any noise.

This was nuts. This was insane. They'd had some dangerously near-public sex in the past ten months, but _near_ meant in another _room_, not in another _row_.

She stopped moving her hand, and stared at him, out of breath; he stared back, stilling his own motions. "Time out," she whispered. "Please."

"No," he said, and slipped his hand down the inside of her slacks.

Juliet's mouth opened, and he kissed her, and she felt herself melting against his fingers.

So wrong, so risky, so gooooood… _his_ breathing was ragged and _she_ was the one being stroked, and she knew she should tell him _stop, not here, not now_, or maybe she meant _no don't stop, not now, not yet, wait, no, yes, yes, yes_, but while her addled mind was struggling to decide, his long warm fingers were bringing her to a quiet, delicious, blinding orgasm, quick and effective and public except for his mouth on hers to keep her relatively quiet, and thank goodness that film _was_ a sort of comedy so the laughter of the audience drowned out her heavy breathing.

She wanted both to kill him and to sit in his lap and _do_ him.

"Bastard," she whispered.

"Yeah," he whispered back.

"I want you," she added, and the color of his eyes changed to that familiar shade of "I'm at your mercy" blue.

Except he wasn't, because this was no 'private' stairwell. This was an auditorium, and what could be done for a horny woman could not so discreetly be done for a horny man.

"Screw this," he growled, and stood up, pulling her along behind him. They worked their way around the sleeping man somehow, and when they were in the main hall, Carlton glanced at his watch and added, "Stan's in the other session for another half hour," before nearly dragging her to the elevator.

Sixth floor, his room (door deadbolted in case Stan did come up), Juliet sitting on the mini-fridge because she couldn't make it as far as Carlton's bed, and they kissed.

It was serious kissing indeed, fired-up kissing, _dammit-I-need-you-now_ kissing. She unzipped his slacks even before his hands went up under her blouse, and in truth her plan was to drop to her knees for as long as she needed to be there, but Carlton had other ideas.

He yanked her pants off, kissing her, and she undid his belt, kissing him; he tugged her closer to his body, kissing her; she locked her thighs around his hips, kissing him. He slipped one hand back inside her panties and basically dispatched her a second time, almost as quickly as he had downstairs, and it was glorious to not have to muffle her moans for a change. While she was still undulating her way through it, he finally stepped out of his pants.

_Please don't let anyone interrupt this_, she thought, as he pulled her panties off and thrust himself into her, deeply, intently, deliciously. The fridge beneath her was cool but she hardly felt it; she only felt Carlton inside her, and she could only hear his rapid breathing, and everything else was lost but these sensations and these rolling feelings of ecstasy and need.

It didn't take long, but it was excruciatingly good. The look in his eyes, when she could even register anything beyond her own pleasure, was haunting... and magnetic... and skewered her with its intensity.

His mouth settled back on hers as his spasms came to an end, and her remaining shoe fell off, an ironic accompaniment to his utter undoing of everything else about her. Carlton laughed low, his hands back inside her blouse.

"Damn," he breathed, "damn."

He carried her over to his bed and they lay together, blissfully content with this ridiculously unprofessional blowing-off of their responsibilities. The rest of her clothes came off—shocking really—and in a little while they did it all over again, slowly but just as intensely.

"Day two," she mused.

"Improved in the past hour," he agreed.

"I can't imagine how we can top this tomorrow."

"We have to hook Stan and Marian up."

Juliet laughed. "He's married, and she's sixty."

"So?"

She trailed her fingers through his chest hair. "I have a better idea. Let's just get another room. When Stan and Marian are asleep, we both sneak out and meet up there."

He looked at her, amused. "You know, that could work."

"Except I think the rooms here are $400 a night."

He raised one dark brow. "You're saying I'm not a $400 lay?"

Juliet laughed delightedly. "Well, if we split the cost, you're definitely a $200 lay."

"That's better then." He teased her breast with the tips of his fingers, and she shivered. "Or we could be strong, as Chief Vick intended."

"Don't you worry, Carlton Lassiter," she assured him, and rolled him onto his back. "I will find the money. But right now, I really have to work some wood."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_[A/N: Thanks for the idea, Lawson227.]_


	9. Chapter 9: Call Me

**CHAPTER NINE: Call Me**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_A little more smut; so so so very (not) sorry. Note re: * - if you haven't read my smut-LITE __**For Charity**__, that's where to find the below-mentioned Millicent Barnes._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Everything was set.

The date, the place, the time off, the reservations for the flight for their honeymoon. Karen Vick and Millicent Barnes were going to be their witnesses. They were going to pick up their engraved rings in the afternoon before the wedding.

The only reason the marriage was taking place a (much-too-long) full month after Carlton proposed was that the rings weren't going to be ready before then.

They were counting down the days. Carlton was smiling a lot. People kept asking Juliet if he was okay.

Their plan was to announce to whomever was still in the station before they left on the last day that when they returned in two weeks, they'd be married—_after all, if you're going to come out, come out big._

But then, the week before, Something Happened.

Karen Vick summoned them to her office on Thursday morning. "I twisted my knee yesterday chasing after Iris," she said without preamble.

Juliet peered over the desk; the Chief's knee was well-wrapped and there was a bottle of Aleve prominently placed on the blotter. "How awful. Is it just a sprain?"

"Yes, but that's not the problem." She hesitated. "Carlton, you have to go to the law enforcement conference in my place."

Juliet looked at Carlton, whose familiar frown was firmly in place. "But—"

"You have to leave this afternoon, and you won't be back until next Thursday night and I am so sorry but I don't have any other options. The mayor's office has made it clear they want a high-ranking member of our department at the conference to report on our stats and methodologies, and if it can't be me, it really has to be you."

They both stared at her. Carlton's eyes were blue beacons of rising anxiety, frustration and panic.

Juliet said, "But Chief…"

"I know. I'm sorry. The timing is terrible. But when we talked the other day you said everything was set up, right? Except for the rings, which you can't get until next Friday anyway?"

What could they say? She was right, and besides, it was an emergency, and he'd be home before the wedding by nearly a full day.

He'd be frazzled and tense and freaking out, Juliet thought, but _he'd be home_ _in time_. She looked at him again; he was obviously struggling to keep quiet.

Karen seemed to know, and her repeated apology, which she really had no obligation to give for doing her job, was sincere. She asked Carlton to stay in the office to collect the data she'd been going to present, and Juliet went back to her desk feeling entirely blindsided.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He called her from his hotel room late that night. "This sucks."

"Your hotel? St. Louis? Or—"

"Being away from you. Being away from you for a _full_ _week_."

Her sigh was profound. "I thought the three-day conference where we couldn't share a room was bad, but this…"

"This _sucks_," he said again. They really hadn't had any time to talk before he left; he spent time with Vick prepping for the convention, and then at home they rushed around getting him packed and ready to go.

He'd made time for one (maybe more than one) really long and intense kiss in the car before they left the garage, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough, and the _myGodIalreadymissyou _look in her eyes—no doubt mirrored in his—had wrenched at his heart. At least during the three-day conference they'd seen each other every day and were able to engage in entirely inappropriate intimate shenanigans, but a week apart at this distance—before their wedding, no less—was going to be inordinately hard.

Juliet was quiet. "Everything's going to be fine. You'll come back Thursday night; we'll get the rings on Friday before we go to the courthouse. I'll have your suit from the drycleaners and if I get antsy enough I'll do some honeymoon packing for us."

"So we can spend more of Friday getting reacquainted," he suggested, keeping his tone light for her.

"Yes. That way we won't need to waste any time having sex on our trip," she teased.

"Absolutely not. Besides, you know what they say. If a couple puts a penny in a jar every time they have sex before they get married, and then takes a penny out of the jar every time they have sex _after_ they get married, the jar will never go empty."

Juliet laughed. "Oh, Carlton. I would be very surprised if that applied to us."

He would be too. When they were alone, they gravitated toward each other with frequency—and usually urgency. It had been a full year now but the fire still roared and he was glad of it. As long as he could keep up with her (though, he thought with some satisfaction, sometimes it was the other way around), he didn't anticipate losing interest in the physical aspect to their relationship.

Plus, he was besotted with her. So.

They talked awhile and it was hard to end the call. Assuring each other they could _do_ this, and it was really no big deal, they promised to bug each other with texts all day long and to use up all their cell minutes at night.

It seemed like it could work.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet lay in bed the next morning, listening to the empty condo.

Carlton wasn't there.

It was wrong.

She tried imagining he'd just gone out for an early run, but that didn't work. The place felt empty.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter woke up in the hotel room and felt completely disoriented. Nothing familiar, and no Juliet.

He texted her from the bed. _I miss you_.

She answered right away. _I miss you more_.

_We're not arguing about this._

_Is it Thursday yet?_

I wish, he thought. _Damn do I wish_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Saturday evening, still early. Juliet wandered the condo, restless. It had been a long day of nothing. Not that she had nothing to _do_; there was just nothing she _wanted_ to do.

She missed her man. She missed his voice, his presence; she missed touching him and smelling him and soothing him and being irritated by him and being loved by him.

This was only the third day, and not even a full three days at that, but she was not… herself.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter was stuck at dinner with some colleagues he presently didn't give a rat's ass about, because he missed Juliet and wanted to talk to her. He didn't have anything in particular to discuss: he just needed her voice in his ear.

He needed her touch and her scent and her smile, too, but he'd settle—lacking any alternative—for her voice.

He made his escape from the others and went back to his room, sprawling on the bed while punching up her number on his phone.

"Hey," she answered, obviously pleased. "I've been dying here."

"Me too, sweetheart." He kicked off his shoes. "Two sessions down, four to go. Two meals with strangers."

"Anyone interesting?"

"Nah. Well, I don't know. I'm too busy missing you. Even the coffee's not right without you."

He heard her sigh, and wished he could feel it against his chest.

"Ditto," she said. "I'm lying in our bed thinking naughty thoughts about you."

"Tell me," he said. "In loving detail." Then he felt stupid and embarrassed and slightly pervy.

Juliet, however, seemed intrigued. "I would love to." Yet she paused.

"But?"

"Are you… sure you… I mean, I never thought you'd… well, actually I never thought _I _would. You know?"

Lassiter blinked. She had a point. Despite a large number of flirtatious texts and conversations over the last year, they'd never gone beyond that into flat-out phone sex. Of course, there was no need to; they were _together_. "It's okay, honey. I'm just… hell, I miss you. I'm not thinking straight."

She agreed she wasn't either, and they went on talking, long rambling flirty banter mixed in with tales of the convention and tales of her lack of activity since he'd gone; she'd done paperwork at her desk all day Friday so there weren't even any new cases to tell him about.

But Lassiter could see her in their bed, her hair across the pillow, her legs crossed, or maybe one knee bent, maybe in shorts and a tee, and he wanted to ask her what she was wearing but he couldn't, not even as a joke, with the way he was feeling right now.

He undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirt while they talked, and it didn't help, because he imagined her with him, kissing his chest, maybe trailing her fingers through his chest hair. He swallowed. "Damn, I want you."

Her intake of breath was sharp. "I want you too. You have no idea how much."

"Hell yeah I do," he said flatly.

"Tell me," she whispered, echoing his words. "In loving detail."

"Let me call you back in five minutes," he said roughly. "I'll be undressed by then."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet's heart was pounding, and her senses on fire, and she wanted this. She used the time to take off her clothes, sliding under the cool sheets, turning out the light. It was only eight p.m. her time but she had a feeling she wouldn't be getting out of bed any time soon.

When Carlton called her back, the timbre of his voice was all desire.

And it was so easy.

Things were said. Erotic, private, loving things.

Whispered suggestions which made her pulse race crazily.

Breathing was rapid. Sighs profound.

She told him what she imagined: straddling him, stroking his chest and shoulders, kissing and kissing and kissing him.

He told her what he saw: her, on the bed, nude and lovely and welcoming. He described the softness of her skin under his fingertips, and how it moved him to make her shudder with need.

It was _his_ hands on her body, not her own; it was her hands on his flesh. His voice in her ear, his need so apparent in every quiet or rushed syllable… Juliet could almost taste him.

When he said he could almost taste her, she arched in the bed, gasping, and for a time there weren't many words between them at all.

It was intimate and real—and not nearly enough, but _so_ close. So very close.

They went round more than once; three days apart was too much and there were always more needs to express, more love to vocalize.

His voice made her tremble, and her memories did the rest, and it was only the beeping of a dying cell phone which eventually stopped their mutual pleasures.

"My God," he whispered. "You're incredible."

She said it back, because he was, and when she slept later, as sated as she could be without her man at her side, she dreamed of him.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter was going to be at loose ends most of Sunday, and wasn't in the mood for chatting up strangers—even fellow cops he actually liked (a little); he was too jazzed from last night's conversation with his Juliet.

That morning he'd had to keep the shower water a lot colder than usual to stay focused, but once he was back from breakfast, he gave in and called her.

Her voice was so warm and sexy in his ear; he wanted her all over again and told her so. "I even looked up flights to see if I could get back to Santa Barbara for tonight and then here again before my afternoon presentation tomorrow."

She laughed. "So did I. Actually, I thought about coming out there for a few days but I know it would be too distracting for you."

"Like I'm not distracted _now_."

"Well, I'd be clinging to your leg… or something… while you were trying to make the mayor proud."

"I wouldn't be making the presentation, O'Hara. I'd be here in the room with you. I wonder if I could call it in?"

"If only," she said. "What are you wearing?"

He couldn't help but laugh, confessing he'd wanted to ask her that last night before he knew what they would soon spend so many X-rated hours doing.

"Okay. So what are you wearing?"

Lassiter was in trouble. "What are _you_ wearing?" _As little as possible_, he hoped.

"Is your phone recharged?"

"Yes, and so am I."

Juliet purred. "Well, I'm only wearing a towel, because I just got out of the shower."

"Crap," he said, his pulse already jack-hammering. "You're going to get me out of my clothes again from 1900 miles away, aren't you?"

"I sure as hell hope so."

And that's how the next few days went: when he was in the hotel room, and she was at home in the bedroom, they were… together.

Once, she admitted, she was on the loveseat. And once she talked to him from the bathtub, sudsing up while he said things so wickedly specific she confessed could hardly keep hold of the phone from trembling.

He was in the same situation, and he felt sixteen again. Maybe fifteen. Everything she said to him was so erotic, charged with desire and love and a lust-stoked imagination. He had a feeling that upon seeing her in person again, he'd simply go up in smoke.

The damned jar was going to shatter before they ever had to take a single penny out.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet found, as the week came to a close, that she'd hardly thought about getting _married_ at all. She was too focused on being crazy in love with—okay, _horny_ for—and missing her blue-eyed Irish cop. Getting him the hell home was more important than what they did when he got there (although she had definite plans for what they were going to do when he got there, oh yes indeedy).

Karen Vick, early on Thursday afternoon, came to her desk and said, "Would you just leave already?"

Carlton's flight was still three hours from getting in but Juliet had been a mass of nervous, impatient energy, and for this to become obvious to the Chief even in her office meant she had a problem.

"Don't ask me twice," she said, already logging off her PC. "I did tell you we changed our mind about coming to work tomorrow, right?"

Karen rolled her eyes. "Excellent statement of the obvious, Detective." More quietly, and with a warm smile, she added, "I'll see you both at the courthouse at four. What are you going to do about an announcement to the department?"

Their tell-'em-on-the-way out plan had been foiled, of course, and Juliet didn't intend to make the announcement without Carlton at her side. She blinked. "I really don't know."

"Here's an idea. Stop and tell Officer Allen in Booking before you leave. In fact, tell her it's a secret."

Juliet had to laugh at the Chief's slightly wicked expression. "That ought to do it. Thanks!"

Naturally, Officer Allen was all agog and swore not to tell a soul. Juliet patted her on the shoulder and assured her it was okay to tell a _few_ people. (That way it'd get out from there to City Hall in the next fifteen minutes instead of taking a full hour.)

Since she had more time now, she finished up loose ends re: packing and being ready to go out of town for two weeks. If it was up to her, she and Carlton would spend most of the twenty-four hours after his arrival home in bed, get up in time to dress for the ceremony, throw the bags in the car, pick up the rings, oh yeah get married and then hit the road for the airport as Mr. & Mrs. Policeman... er... Lassiter.

It was a good plan. She would use her gun if necessary to be sure _nothing_ screwed it up.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

At the airport, Juliet got out of the Fusion and circled around to the passenger side, leaning against it restlessly.

A burly security guard approached nearly at once. "You can't wait here, ma'am."

Juliet showed him her badge.

"Sorry," he said, unimpressed, "but you—"

She interrupted calmly. "I'm here to pick up Carlton Lassiter, the head detective for the Santa Barbara Police Department." Pausing to judge his expression, she continued, "I know that makes no difference to you, so let me add this. Detective Lassiter is my fiancé. We are getting married late tomorrow afternoon, and I. Have. Not. Seen. Him. In. A. Full. Week."

He blinked.

"So," she went on with silky authority, "it's going to take more than one of you to get me to move from this spot."

He blinked again. "Well. Okay. But if you're still here in fifteen minutes, I _will_ ask you to move on."

"Listen, if I'm still here in fifteen minutes, I'll be a pile of ash, and you'll only need a DustBuster to get rid of me. In fact—" But she stopped, because her tall lean delicious beloved and temporarily scowling Carlton was coming out the door and she flat-out launched herself at him.

He dropped his bags (and the scowl) and wrapped her up in his arms, kissing her hard, and Juliet could feel herself melting from the sheer heat of his passion—_their_ passion.

Burly was staring at them; she could sense it. So could Carlton, who turned his head and said icily, "It's been awhile. Deal with it."

The man shrugged and stepped away, and she drew Carlton down for another deeply lascivious kiss. "I guess you can tell I missed you."

"Not really, no." He squeezed her, his blue eyes the exact color of unending love. "But I missed _you_."

"Let's get out of here, okay?" She popped the trunk and he dumped the bags inside. "We have a stop to make and it needs to be fast."

Disappointment flashed across his face and she knew he had the same get-home-make-love-_now_ idea in his head that she did. But this _was_ going to work out.

In the car, she leaned over and kissed him one more time before starting the engine, tasting the curve of his smile as if it was all new, because it seemed that way; wonderfully new and exciting and not nearly enough. He put one warm hand much too high on her thigh, stroking meaningfully, and she had to force herself to concentrate on the driving.

Fortunately this test of her willpower didn't last long, because she turned into the driveway of the nearest hotel.

"What are we doing here?" His tone was half-suspicious, half-hopeful.

"I took the liberty of making a reservation for the night. Hope you don't mind." She got out of the car before he could respond, but he was quick about following her. "Even got the room key already," she added with a grin, her heart racing at the mere thought of the decadent reunion she had in mind. "There was no damn way _I _was going to make it all the way to the condo."

Carlton's eyebrows were high but his eyes said yes-yes-_YES_. He stopped her in the parking lot for one dangerously sexy kiss, and how they got from there to the room, she never knew.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter watched Juliet swipe the card in the reader and it seemed to take for-freaking-ever. Why weren't they inside and naked already? What would be so bad about taking her right here in the hallway? Apart from being kicked out of the hotel, possibly arrested for indecent exposure, and having their careers blemished on the eve of their marriage?

She got the damned door open and started taking off her clothes before it even swung all the way shut again.

But then again, his jacket was already on the floor and his shirt half-way unbuttoned, so comparisons were moot.

The lights stayed off—too much trouble to find the lamp switch—and anyway they knew each others' bodies by heart already. The important thing was having Juliet, naked, in bed, under him, her legs hooked over his thighs, writhing, moaning, _his_.

Yes.

Only Juliet had other ideas. "You have made me crazy every day," she growled, straddling him, raking her fingers down his bare chest. "Every day, Carlton Lassiter. Your voice in my ear was the sweetest torture and you are going to pay as many times as possible in the next few hours. You hear me?"

"Do your worst, O'Hara," he shot back, and the game was on.

She felt so damned good: smooth skin, all warmth and fragrance; her hands on his body and her fingers on the most sensitive places, places she had touched with words alone all week long.

The words echoed in his ear as he let her ravish him, but he ravished her right back. He kissed everything he could reach. His mouth was everywhere on her, everywhere she moved close enough for him to get to her.

Her intent seemed clear: she wanted to mark him. She'd left hickeys on him before but this was a banner night indeed and he almost went totally berserk as she gave another one to his inner thigh high above the knee, since her golden hair was brushing his skin and her fingertips were brushing his hips and stomach and her breasts were brushing his knees and he had to have her or he'd die, and if Lassiter was going to die during sex, it was going to be while achieving the end result… not along the way.

"Juliet," he gasped. "Now, honey. _Now_."

Her dark blue eyes widened at the plea in his voice, yet she wasn't at all surprised when he grasped her shoulders and dragged her up his body into home position. She assisted, of course, and the feel of her wet warmth enveloping him was more fantastically good than it had ever been before, not that there was a mathematical equation to explain how to top past perfection.

She was speaking—he thought it was "oh my God" repeatedly—but he couldn't hear over the pounding of his heart. He anchored her to him by clamping his hands on her hips, and they moved in torturously sublime synchronicity: deeper, harder, faster. Always more. Always.

Juliet's gasps turned into near-shrieks; she threw her head back as her orgasm approached, and the sight of her—glowing with passion, totally lost in the feelings—drove him to push harder, further, until the explosion took them both out in one long series of rumbles amid crackling bursts of lightning.

Kind of a fancy-schmancy way to say they blew each other away, he reflected a little bit later, when she lay panting in his arms.

"Don't ever leave me again," she whispered raggedly.

"I won't. I swear." Even if it cost him his job: she'd be with him wherever he had to go.

"But keep your phone charged at all times just in case," she added, and kissed his collarbone to punctuate the warning.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet let Carlton wash her hair. The sensation of his long fingers gentle against her scalp and neck, slowly washing away the evidence of the last few hours' sexual exertion, was remarkable. Soothing and sensuous, he seemed to know just how to both relax and arouse her simultaneously.

She leaned back against him and his hands moved to cup her soapy breasts, caressing her nipples, then sliding down her stomach along with the warm water which rinsed her clean. His breath on her neck, his murmurs in her ear… his erection against her backside. All so good. All so very much missed this past week.

One of his divine hands slipped between her thighs, and Juliet couldn't help but undulate against him.

"I missed _this_," he said in a low voice which made her shiver beyond what he was doing with his fingers. "The phone was incredible but this… you… _this_ is what I need. You with me."

"I always will be," she moaned, as those fingers delved ever deeper, robbing her of further speech.

He brought her to not one but two orgasms there in the shower, but he didn't take her again until they were out, when he pressed her still-dripping body to the bathroom door and drove himself home, deep and sure.

She could see—_as if she could_ _see_!—their reflections in the steamy mirror: his lean body moving against her curves; so many ways they were opposite but fit perfectly, and never more so than when he was claiming her… exactly… like… _this_.

But her eyes closed as the feelings overtook her, until he growled out for her to keep them open, to look at him, and she did. His ever-astonishing blue eyes were intense with need and passion and love, locked to hers as he plundered her, like a treasure meant only for him, and she did feel like a jewel, something precious and personal and never again to even be aware that other men existed, because really, there was no damn point to that at all, was there?

**. . . .**

**. . .**

It was midnight, and they were both hungry. Sated for now, but still wrapped close together in bed, and food was rapidly becoming a necessity.

"We should go home," Juliet suggested. "Get some dinner, get some sleep."

"I'm happy here." He stroked her still-damp hair back from her forehead, smiling.

She laughed when his growling stomach indicated otherwise. "We have a big day tomorrow."

He glanced at the bedside clock. "It _is_ tomorrow. In just over sixteen hours, you'll be my wife."

"In just over sixteen hours, you'll be my husband." She was beaming, and he loved her.

"Juliet," he whispered. "You can't possibly understand how much I love you."

"Oh, I think I do." She nuzzled his shoulder. "I'm just hoping we both survive the ceremony."

"I keep telling you I'm from sturdy Irish stock. I can survive anything if you're with me. But we _are_ going to need a much bigger jar."

She laughed delightedly, then poked him in the side, making him _oof_ even as he grinned. "And _I_ am a strong and brave Scottish lass." She smiled tremulously. "Who belongs to you forever."

"Then okay," he whispered. "Let's go home and get married."

"With a stop for food first?"

He tickled her stomach, making her giggle most becomingly. "Yes. Where can we get whipped cream at this hour?"

Juliet purred with delight… and they were "forced" to stay in bed awhile longer, but neither one of them felt any hunger for _food_ at all.

****. . . . .****

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_[So still no honeymoon smut yet, Lawson227... but it'll get here eventually.]_


	10. Chapter 10: Angry

_(Note: if you have read the other chapters in my Smut series—which of course you haven't because you're all decent folk with more sense than moi—then you know they've been going in order. This **DOES NOT** FOLLOW the last chapter. This is a standalone, pre-Lassiet bit of smut.)_

**. . . . . .**

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter paced in his condo, glass of Jameson's in hand. It wasn't his first and it wouldn't be his last since he left the station an hour ago.

Especially given _how_ he'd left the station: in a rage. A rage which was still simmering.

He couldn't remember exactly what set him off, what the last straw was. He knew Spencer had issued some off-the-cuff snarkery about him and Juliet had merely rolled her eyes and chosen to overlook it, and he was done. He knew Spencer himself probably couldn't remember what he'd said; he didn't mean half the crap that spewed from his gaping maw. It was just too easy to spew it without regard for the consequences.

But Lassiter figured seven-plus years was enough. He was done, and _that_ was the consequence. He could not take even one more casual slight in front of Juliet, knowing Juliet would neither defend him nor hush Spencer. It's not that he thought she _agreed_ with her asshat; it was that she figured it would just roll off Lassiter like always. She'd told him once he was the grownup and she held him to a higher standard than she did Spencer.

How the hell was that fair? He loved her. He loved her like Spencer couldn't even _begin_ to dream of loving her. He knew her better. He understood her better. He'd been there for her in ways Spencer hadn't and he'd stood by her when she needed him.

He was no martyr and it wasn't her fault he'd never told her how he felt. He didn't blame her for not wanting him or even having a clue that she should consider it. But the time he spent around Spencer was increasingly aggravating, seeing how Juliet tolerated every one of his antics even when Lassiter could tell they hurt her—and he _could _tell: she never admitted it but the pain was there and where the hell was her self-esteem? Why the hell was she settling for the asshat when she could have pretty much any guy she wanted and be treated a thousand times better? Like she mattered? Like she was half of a relationship and not just the audience to the relationship Spencer had with himself?

So he was furious. Tired of himself and tired of that and understanding keenly that this was the way it was going to be. It was going to get worse and worse and finally Lassiter would be a ghost in his own department. If he thought it was even remotely personal for Spencer anymore—it had been the first few years, but not anymore; now it was just _habit_—it'd be different. But it was only thoughtless, careless, gotta-get-a-laugh SpencerTime, all the time, and Lassiter was done.

He refilled the glass and took a slug of it and someone pounded on the door. Son of a bitch.

He yanked it open. "What?" he nearly roared.

Juliet drew back and the asshat beside her looked alarmed.

But she rallied. "Carlton, talk to me."

"No thanks," he said, and started to close the door again.

Juliet pushed at it and shoved her foot in the way. "I mean it. Let me in."

Lassiter contemplated slamming it anyway and then said, "Fine. I don't talk to _you_," he snapped at Spencer. "Why they hell are you here anyway?"

"I... uh... brought Jules?"

"Right. On your motorcycle?"

"Well, I mean, I came with her."

"He followed me," Juliet said exasperatedly. "He's not _with_ me."

"Jules," Shawn protested. "That's so mean."

"Shawn, go home. Carlton, let me in so we can talk about this!"

He knew her: she would not give up.

"You want to talk, fine, get in here now. You," he said with a glower to Spencer, "get the hell out of my building." Once Juliet was inside, he slammed and locked the door in Spencer's startled face.

"Carlton," she began. "Calm down."

"Why? What the hell for? This is my turf. I can be exactly as pissed off as I want to be, and at the moment I choose to be extremely pissed off." He knocked back the rest of the whiskey he'd started before her arrival.

"But what the hell are you so pissed off about?" she demanded, standing by his table, staring at him as if he were insane. "You kicked a chair, you smashed a cup, you stormed out of the station, you nearly caused an accident in the parking lot and now you've obviously been drinking—what _is_ it?"

"What do you care, O'Hara? I mean, really, is it the _chair_ you're worried about? Was that someone's favorite mug? Oh yes, now I remember, it was _my_ mug. Who the hell cares if I smash my own damn mug?"

She frowned, her dark blue eyes beginning to show anger of her own. "What do _I_ care? What the hell kind of question is that? You're my—"

"Don't you say it," he warned her. "Don't you dare trot out that 'we're partners' crap. I know what I am to you, and it's not all sunshiney flowers best friend partner crap."

Now she was definitely angry, and he was perversely glad. "You're _full_ of crap, that's for sure. Of course we're partners and friends and that _is_ why I care why you're furious. I want to know what I can do to make it better!"

"Oh, _I _see. That's why you brought Spencer over here?" It wasn't fair, but he didn't care.

"I told you I didn't. He followed me on his bike. He's concerned about you too and—"

"The hell he is!" he nearly shouted. "And when has Spencer ever had any right to be involved in _our_ partnership?"

Juliet's eyes narrowed. "So this is about _me_?"

"No, it's not about you! It's about him! One more stupid slam from him that you yet again ignore completely! One more time he gets away with saying whatever the hell he wants and nobody calls him on it, nobody. Certainly not you, _partner_."

She was stung. "You're a son of a bitch if you think—"

"Save it," he interrupted. "It doesn't matter. And you know what? You can leave now."

"I will not leave," she protested. "Not until you tell me what's going on! This has to be about more than Shawn being a jerk to you!"

Lassiter advanced on her but she stood her ground. "I'll tell you what's going on. I'm out of here. Tomorrow I'm giving notice to Vick and I am Out. The Hell. Of Here. Then you and Spencer can take over the squad and everything will be hunky freaking dory because Robot Lassiter won't be around to—"

He was cut off by her hand swiftly smacking his face, but not for nothing was he tall and fast; he grabbed her arm and pinned it behind her back, bringing her flush to his chest and glaring at her at least as hotly as she was glaring at him. "Nice," he breathed, his cheek stinging.

"Don't you dare talk to me like I'm the enemy," she hissed.

"Oh, you are not the enemy, O'Hara._ I_ am most definitely the enemy. Ask around. There is no damn Lassiter Fan Club at the SBPD."

"The hell with them. I only care what _I _think." Her eyes were ablaze and she struggled to free herself but Lassiter easily held her firm until she subsided. "Let me go."

He released her abruptly and she stumbled a few feet back. "Get out."

"No. Stop—Carlton, just stop!"

He strode to the table and poured another shot of Jameson's into the glass, but when he picked it up to drink she was fast enough to knock it out of his hand. The glass broke against the edge of the table and shards of glass scattered amid the rivulets of whiskey which splashed against the chair and floor, and he stared at it all in surprise. "Son of a bitch! Why the hell did you do that?"

Juliet pulled him into the middle of the room. "Because you've had _enough_."

"I certainly have not," he retorted, and headed back to the table to retrieve the bottle. Juliet cut him off at the pass, standing between him and his target, and he glared at her, thinking he'd just physically remove her if necessary.

"Carlton," she warned.

"O'Hara," he mocked, and snaked his arm around her, but she pushed hard against him and he lurched back. "Dammit, woman! When did you get so violent?"

"Tell me what the hell is really going on with you!" she yelled, in his face, unstoppable now.

"What are you going to do?" he asked mockingly. "Slap me again?"

"If I have to," she snapped, and in the next second came at him—but this time he caught her wrist in mid-strike and once again he pinned her arm behind her, and once again their bodies were tight together. He felt dangerous and stupid and tired and he said with great anger, "I am so damn sick of being in love with you. I am so damn sick of the utter stupid whackaloon pointlessness of it all, and I want you out of here right now. And I don't want to see you again, O'Hara. You get me? I'll give my notice in the morning and we are not talking again. We are not seeing each other again. We are not going to be friends, and I am going to be gone. Do you understand? _Do you_ _understand_?"

Her eyes were wide with shock but then the anger was back. "The hell you're leaving me, Carlton. The _hell_." She tried to twist out of his grip but now they were both furious and his clutch at her arm as she twisted resulted in the sudden and unduly loud sound of her sleeve ripping at the shoulder. Juliet barely glanced down, but he was staring at her chest, because when the blouse was pulled to one side, the top buttons popped and exposed creamy skin and a bit of her pink lace bra.

"Get out," he said again harshly, stepping away despite the sudden and powerful desire which flooded him.

But Juliet stepped forward, grabbed at _his_ shirt and ripped it open; buttons clattered to the floor.

Lassiter stared. "Okay. Great." He was finding it hard to breathe and his face still stung from the slap. "Mutual shirt damage. Now go."

"Or what?" she challenged. "Or what?" She was breathing hard herself, her eyes lit by anger and maybe something else.

"Or I tear your blouse off completely," he said flatly.

"Do it, then. Do it, tough guy."

"O'Hara," he warned.

"Afraid?" she mocked. "You say you're in love with me but you're too—" She stopped abruptly when he reached out and ripped the blouse all the way open.

"Happy now? Happy you reduced me to acting like an animal? Or do I need to rip your bra off too?"

Juliet took a deep breath and said very precisely, "I wish to hell you would, you _asshat_."

It was the pejorative which did it. That particular word, which he considered a unique identifier for Spencer, is what pushed him the rest of the way. He dragged her to him by the arm, tore the bra off with one hand—damn flimsy lace—and pulled her close enough that her breasts were pressed to his half-bare chest as he covered her mouth with his in a rough kiss, all tongue, all demand.

It took him a few seconds to realize her tongue was moving too and she wasn't resisting. In fact, her hands were undoing his belt and unzipping his pants and he didn't know where the hell this was going but damn her if she thought she was leaving now.

Except she didn't seem to be leaving and this pissed him off even more. "Dammit," he growled as she nipped hard on his earlobe, and retaliated by bending her back and suckling hard at her breast, knowing he was leaving a mark on Spencer's woman and not giving even one fraction of a damn.

Juliet moaned and raked her fingernails down his chest, pushing his shirt off and letting him yank the remains of her blouse and bra off as well. Naked from the waist up, they kissed with fierce passion, and Lassiter was dimly aware it was entirely mutual and okay, that was okay, he was never going to see her again and if she wanted him to follow through, by God he would follow through. He bent enough to upend her over his shoulder, and she never said a word in protest; she just slid her hands down his pants while he carried her to the bedroom, only letting go when he dumped her on the bed.

She was on her feet at once, undoing her own slacks while he slid out of his, and barely had her panties hit the floor before he was on her, only the bed was so far, two feet away and _so far_ but the wall was right here.

He pushed her to it and lifted one of her legs up high around his hips and feasted on her breasts as she ground her pelvis to his. He was already ready for her and by the heat and anxiety of her motions, she was ready for him.

Her other leg hooked around him and he slid into her with ease, kissing her demandingly, roughly—and being met with equal strength and heat, from mouth to groin.

Juliet was making sounds of intense pleasure that he felt down in his own bones. Her mouth was a hot and hungry force against his, and her fingernails now on his back had to be leaving marks, searing her brand on his flesh. He pushed against her, hard against the wall, and she moaned in breathless ecstasy, enveloping him in the silky heat of her perfect body.

He put one hand on the wall beside her head and stared into her eyes, out of breath, still pushing, and she met his gaze unrelentingly—if a bit unfocused by her pleasure—and this was not just animalistic sex: she knew where she was and who was doing her and this was the memory he was taking with him when he blew this town: Juliet looking him in the eyes as he brought her to an orgasm he hoped to God she never had any reason to forget.

Losing himself in her at last, giving her everything he had until she was shuddering against him, her legs trembling, he turned them away from the wall and dumped her again on the bed, lying beside her in a heap of exhaustion.

_Now you can leave_**,** he thought. _Now_.

She drew in a deep, hitching breath. "Again."

Lassiter looked over at her. "What?"

Her breasts were heaving and he could see the mark he'd left on her. She was sweaty and gorgeous and yeah, he still loved her, and yeah, he was still a little angry.

"Again," she repeated.

She turned her head and met his gaze, hers milder than before, lit with new fire.

He rolled on top of her, forcing one knee between hers (forcing wasn't entirely accurate; she readily moved her thighs apart). "More?"

"Yes. Now. Don't make me beg, Lassiter, because I will."

"I see," he murmured, and without further talk, moved down her body and put his mouth directly to her. Might as well get the most out of this one-time thing.

Juliet shuddered as soon as his tongue touched her there, and before he was done she was digging her hands into his shoulders, pushing up against his mouth and gasping for air between moans and cries of pleasure.

Moments later they were fused together again, as if he were sixteen and could do this for hours.

She held on to the headboard as he moved against her, staring at him with clear passion and ongoing desire, and her mouth was an irresistible magnet for his. The carnal power of her kisses fed every flame he had for her, fed them into a roaring inferno of lust—lust she shared completely, if he could trust the look in her dark-blue eyes.

And he knew he could trust it.

By two a.m. he was pretty sure she wasn't planning to run out in righteous indignation, because by two a.m. she'd had her way with him twice more.

She was currently straddling him, beautiful and glistening with sweat, hands clamped to his shoulders as she undulated her lower body against his.

"O'Hara," he gasped.

"Call me Juliet, dammit," she growled.

"Juliet, dammit, what the hell are you still doing here?" He thrust up at her.

She bore down. "I'm showing you."

"Showing me what?" Another upward thrust.

Her eyes half-closed against the feeling and she bore down again meaningfully. "That you are not leaving me," she purred.

Lassiter hit his personal sweet spot and couldn't talk for a few minutes, and Juliet collapsed against his damp chest, her hair soft and fragrant even now.

"Then _you'd_ better be leaving Spencer," he said as if he hadn't just had a mind-blowing orgasm. "Because I'm not sticking around either to look longingly at you from afar or be part of a triangle. Tonight's an anomaly for both of us."

Juliet traced silky lines across his chest with her fingertips. "Agreed."

"Agreed what?"

She braced herself on her arms and looked at him. "Agreed I leave Shawn. Agreed you don't go anywhere. Agreed we do this every night until we die."

He stared into her eyes, searching. "You don't need me for sex."

"No, I need you for you. I can learn to do _anything_, Carlton. I moved across country, I started a new life here, I learned to be a good detective with your help. But I do not ever intend to learn how to live without you."

His hands settled onto her back, and he let her kiss him with her perfect, pink, slightly swollen lips. "Even though you know I love you?"

"Whether you love me or not. Because I belong with you. Love's built into it. Love _built_ it, in fact." She kissed him again. "You owe me a new blouse and bra."

"You owe me a new shirt. And a glass."

"Sorry I slapped you."

"I'm not," he countered with a grin.

Juliet grinned back and nipped at his lower lip. "So we're clear then. You're back to work in the morning and you'll apologize to your chair for abusing it."

"The day I apologize to a—fine, I'll apologize to the chair," he amended when she tugged hard at a curl of his hair. "Wingnut."

"Asshat," she retorted.

"Beautiful," he sighed.

"You are," she agreed, and kissed him into submission for the night.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

**. . **


	11. Chapter 11: Water

**Disclaimer**: my smutty heart owns nothing of _Psych_.  
><strong>Rating<strong>: M

**Summary**: another pre-Lassiet stand-alone for my smut series (that is, it doesn't follow Ch 1-9). As a plot cliche, it _would_ fit into my Contrived series but it's too smutty. Sorry. :-)

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Crappy day. Crazy arrestee, flinging orange juice around—Carlton had taken a full gallon to his jacket and shirt—and the perp had lunged at her and torn her sleeve half off. It was all loud and sticky and annoying and when they finally got the cuffs on, all seven officers who were involved in the debacle had to be debriefed one by one, because this was no _ordinary_ crazy arrestee.

_This_ crazy arrestee was the D.A.'s maiden sister Maybella, who had just retired from teaching and had decided to experiment with some of the drugs her students had been using for years.

Maybella was 5'2", weighed no more than 110 pounds, and was never going to try drugs again.

Carlton had been furious, not just because of his juiced clothes but because it was personally embarrassing to him that so many of his officers had fallen for the woman's frail appearance. He already knew how this was going to look to the media—a cross between claims of elder abuse and references to the Keystone Kops. The fact that the woman had also pitched a rock at him and struck his leg was irrelevant in his view.

Juliet had wanted to go to his aid but he wouldn't have any of that—typical Carlton—and that was one more reason she was in a bad mood. Damn man wouldn't let her help him whenever anyone else was around. Didn't matter how long they'd been partners or how fully she knew he trusted her: in front of others, he was Mr. Tough Guy.

She needed to sew her sleeve back on enough to get to the end of the work day, because last night she'd cleverly taken her overnight bag inside her apartment to wash the change of clothes she kept, and hadn't remembered to take it back to the car in the morning. It was too late in the day to be worth making a trip home to change, so she scrounged around for her mini sewing kit and then tried to find a place to do the work.

The ladies' room on the main floor was out: three female officers were engaged in some kind of Drama involving someone's love life. The ladies' room on the ground level was being cleaned. Aggravated and simply wanting an adequate amount of privacy so she could take her blouse off and fix the sleeve, she went further down the hall to the shower rooms. She inspected the contents of the kit as she walked, making sure she had both needle and suitable thread, and pushed open the shower room door, aiming for the stall at the far end.

Glad the place was empty, she yanked the curtain closed and removed her blouse, concentrating on finding the seam, trimming the torn spots with the little baby scissors, and generally restoring order.

Someone else came into the shower room and went into the first stall. The echoey effects of the tile walls made it hard to figure out which officer it was but Juliet didn't care; she didn't want to talk, only sew.

She heard the sound of a zipper and the rattle and rustle of other clothing, keys, etc. The stalls were long and there were hooks near each entrance which allowed them to keep items off the floor and dry (if perhaps a little steamy).

Juliet sighed. She wished she could take a shower herself, but this was not the time. She listened to the water running from the other stall, and wondered which officer it was who had a reason to bathe at three in the afternoon. There hadn't been any other women at the Maybella arrest scene.

Then a familiar scent wafted her way.

Was that...

Yes, it was.

The scent of oranges.

Orange _juice_, maybe.

Umm...

Turning to peer out the gap between curtain and stall, Juliet looked into the mirror on the opposite wall.

The occupied shower stall's curtain was only pulled about three-quarters of the way closed.

She saw a back... shoulders... a pleasantly shaped ass... long lean legs...

She stopped breathing.

_Oh my God._

It was a man.

She was in the wrong shower room. Or he was. Didn't matter.

_Please don't be Carlton._

_(Be Carlton.)_

_Please be some_ other _cop_ _who got doused with juice_.

_(He was the only one who got doused.)_

_Oh God._

He turned, and she saw damp and tempting curls on his chest; he was washing his hair so his glorious blue eyes were closed, and barely (no pun intended) had her mind accepted that it was definitely Carlton when her traitorous eyes wandered down his flat stomach to the indisputably male part of him which she was suddenly intensely interested in seeing better (and at much closer range).

If not touching.

With her tongue.

_Holy crap._

She took a step back from the curtain, face aflame and senses overheating. Hell, melting.

About two seconds later, she was peering out the gap again.

_Dear God_, he was attractive. As attractive nude as he was fully dressed and crabby.

He moved in the shower stall, rinsing his hair and washing his lean body, and Juliet didn't even pretend to herself that she wouldn't have liked very very _very_ much to help him out.

_Stop it, O'Hara! This is your partner. Your private, reserved, by-the-book partner. You must _not_ have lustful thoughts about your partner._

_But... he's naked. _

_And dear God, he's _hot_. And I really, really, _really_ want to touch him._

_Holy holy HOLY CRAP_.

She was in serious trouble here. Her hands were trembling. Desire flooded her, utterly unchecked.

Dammit, it had been a long time since a man got to her this fast without even trying. She was no voyeur and she knew Carlton would be utterly horrified and mortified and many other _ieds_ to know she'd seen him. He'd probably request a new partner and take leave until he got one.

Still she could not stop staring, and the wanting was insane.

Standing in the shower spray, his eyes still shut, Carlton faced the mirror. She raked her shamelessly hungry gaze over him, memorizing every detail of her delectable partner. Her delicious, delectable, oh-so-edible partner.

It was official. She was, in so many words, the horniest she'd ever been.

And it had been a really bad day.

And she would never be able to look him in the eye again.

Unless.

He turned his back, facing the shower spray directly, and Juliet acted. She kicked off her shoes and left the stall, padding to the door to lock it.

Then on her way to his shower stall, she unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, leaving it on the floor.

Grasping the curtain—her hand still shaking—she said, "One of us is in the wrong shower room."

Carlton turned slowly—she'd half-expected him to reach for a weapon which wasn't there—and to his credit, didn't try to conceal himself from her. His eyes were a deeper shade of blue, but he did not seem at all appalled as he took in her state of undress.

No doubt he didn't need help noticing how erect her nipples were through the thin bra.

His gaze lingered there, and she felt fresh heat from head to toe.

"It's been too lousy a day for me to freak out about this," he said with relative calm. "Come in if you're coming in, but don't expect to stay dressed."

She pulled the curtain all the way closed and stepped into his arms, and there was no hesitation in his kiss.

But she drew back a little because she had to touch him. She had to touch the skin she'd been admiring. Craving.

When he was dressed—trim, almost elegant order—it was only possible to see Carlton's strength when he flew into action, either physically or verbally—but here, as he stood nude before her, she could see the actual man. The live, vital man.

She ran her hands over his chest and arms slowly, appreciating the muscles and sinews, and how he tensed and relaxed under her caresses. He was so warm, and she knew he'd be that warm even without the shower water to add heat.

She skimmed her fingers across his stomach and down his thighs and grasped him lightly, needing to feel the heat of him there as well. Carlton let out a shuddering breath, and pulled her close against his chest, his strong arms enclosing her.

Warm water cascaded over them both, and as his mouth ravished hers, he unhooked her wet bra and then pushed her wet panties down her legs and off, and they pressed their wet bodies together, needing full contact.

It was as if they had kissed a hundred times before; there was no hesitation, no guessing—it was all certainty.

Juliet rubbed herself against him—against _all_ of him—accepting his tongue and his hands and his rapidly growing erection.

"I could smell your cologne when I came in," he muttered, nipping her earlobe. "I saw your shoes under the curtain. And I didn't care, O'Hara."

"God, Carlton," she gasped, leaning back when his mouth settled on her breast and suckled hungrily.

"I didn't care," he repeated between erotic tugs to her nipple, his hot breath tantalizing her damp flesh. "I even left the curtain partially open. That's not like me."

"I know." She arched involuntarily as his wet fingers slipped between her legs, unerringly finding the sweetest spot.

"But sometimes a guy's gotta take a chance, and the day a tiny 65-year-old schoolmarm has to be brought down by half the force seems like a good time for chances." He grasped her hips and pushed her back against the wall, and she was absolutely ready to clamp her legs around his waist.

But he surprised her by dropping to his knees and putting his mouth and tongue to her, insistent and sure, and Juliet's attempts to keep her guttural sounds of pleasure under control seemed to amuse him. He pushed her legs further apart to have even more control over her, and she slid her fingers into his hair, trying not to pull as he invaded her so very, very wickedly with _his_ fingers... and tongue.

Her spasms of barely-muffled pleasure spurred him to seek a second orgasm from her right after the first, in fact, one she gave up with excruciatingly exquisite ecstasy, before he rose and kissed her hard, gripping her hips again—and this time when she hooked her trembling legs around him he was ready, driving into her with all the force of long-contained urges set free.

Juliet's back rubbed against the shower wall and she would have something akin to carpet burn later but she was mindlessly unable to care; she couldn't register anything other than the sensation of Carlton's mouth demanding mastery over hers while he took her hard, in a long and satisfying mutual plundering.

The twin sensations... the places where they were joined... pushing at each other in heat and lust... Juliet had never felt so fully on fire for a man before, this man who had been in her daily life for years and had never so much as given a hint (though she _knew_, somehow _she knew_) of the passion he had for her (and this _was_ just for her; she knew that too, and one day he would tell her so of his own free will).

After, with spasms still racking her, fading gently, he set her on her feet and they stood under the shower spray, letting the warm water rinse them both clean. He held her firm, because she was shaking, her legs weak, and she still wanted him. More.

And she knew very well that more would not be enough. Ever.

His eyes were huge and relentless, and she knew now what fiery desire looked like in those blue depths.

"We're not done," she whispered.

A faint smile curved his mouth before he kissed her, more sensuously now, slower and just as delicious.

"I don't think we'll _ever_ be done, O'Hara."

She told him he was right.

And she repeated it most every night for the next forty years.

**. . . . . .**

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	12. Chapter 12: Flannel

**Disclaimer**: my smutty heart owns nothing of _**psych**_.  
><strong>Rating: <strong>M<br>**Summary:****** another pre-Lassiet stand-alone for my smut series. This time, witness protection in a safe house leads to some night-time discoveries.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet woke when Carlton nudged her arm. "Mmmph," she said, sitting up at once and rubbing her eyes.

"Sorry. But you said if I didn't wake you for your shift, you'd pistol-whip me."

"I would have, too." He'd let her sleep an extra hour the last time, and while she appreciated his concern, she also knew _he_ needed some rest.

Carlton gave her a quick grin. "Masters is out cold. No activity around the property."

Masters was their 'charg-ee.' Set to testify in a significant mob trial, he was the district attorney's main interest right now, and only the best of the SBPD was allowed to guard him.

She and Carlton had been on night duty for four nights running now, with six to go. Masters was gregarious to the point of needing to be shot just to have some peace and quiet, but at least when he fell asleep, he was nearly comatose. Carlton had taken to making sure the day shift fed him pasta and other high-carb dishes for dinner to be sure he'd conk out early and leave them in relative silence.

They started at seven, called bedtime ten, and took turns: one night, she'd get the first four hours, and he'd get the next; the following night, the opposite. It was just enough to be sure neither of them was rested at all by the time the day shift reported for duty.

Their routine was pretty simple, and she was enjoying—apart from the times Masters was awake—spending time with Carlton. Usually their night work had them cooped up in a car for hours, so it was nice to have more room for a change. The house was small, and they were keeping to the interior rooms; one bedroom for Masters, and one they took turns sleeping in.

Carlton was pretty good at cards. They played a lot of five-card draw and gin rummy, and when Masters was awake they let him join in. He wasn't so bad, their chargee, except for dominating the conversation, but he was at least amenable to being told to zip it: he did actually want to cooperate fully, and staying alive to do so was pretty important to him.

It was two a.m., and she got up and organized herself with a yawn while Carlton lay down on the bed in her place.

She wondered what he'd think if she told him she liked to sleep there after him, because she liked his scent on the pillow.

The idea of him blushing made her blush too, and she was thankful for the dim lighting.

Wandering the house in her bare feet, checking the windows and sensors and alerting the perimeter guards that she was on duty, she couldn't help but think of Carlton and this oddly… nice time they'd been having.

Carlton at ease—as much as it was possible for him to be at ease—was something she didn't get to see often on the job, and something she treasured. He had a wicked sense of humor and wasn't at _all_ hard to look at, especially when he was a little unbuttoned and more relaxed like this.

She knew he would be able to fly into action at a moment's notice, but he unbent enough when it was just the two of them that… she had to admit… he was kind of irresistible.

His expressive blue eyes were _especially_ hard to resist, and when he smiled… when he grinned… when he made her feel like he valued her above all others… damn.

Juliet sighed, pacing the house and thinking inappropriate thoughts about him. She'd had these thoughts before, but they'd increased dramatically since this assignment started.

_Not. Good._

Keeping on the move, she checked on Masters, who was snoring, oblivious to everything. Moving then to the east side of the house, she checked the sensor screens and decided she might have some coffee, but on her way back down the hall past the other bedroom, she paused in the doorway to peek at Carlton.

The room had a nightlight, and it bathed him in a faintly orange glow. He lay on his back breathing deeply, one hand on his stomach.

The covers were off, and she let her eyes rove his lean body admiringly. He kept in shape and she liked his shape.

She even liked his blue and green flannel lounge pants—a huge concession on his part, as he'd growled that he preferred to remain in work clothes while he was on the job, and it had taken gentle mockery on her part to get him to admit he'd be more comfortable, hence rested, hence better able to _do_ that job, if he dressed appropriately for sleep.

Carlton sighed, and his hand twitched.

Then something else twitched.

Lower.

Juliet felt her eyes grow wide as she stared—unabashedly—at what was clearly a flannel-covered erection.

_Oh._

_My._

She let out a shuddery breath.

_Yes._

He mumbled something, and she stilled herself.

_Ohmyyes._

The house was absolutely silent now, as if everything in it was frozen along with her in this moment.

Except she wasn't totally frozen: parts of her were getting very, _very_ warm.

_OhmyYES._

His hand moved a few inches, restlessly, toward his waistband, and he mumbled again.

The cloth moved as his arousal grew, and Juliet was having a difficult time not gasping for air, because her heart was pounding and a trickle of sweat was forming between her breasts. She flapped the fabric, trying to cool herself off.

_You are shameless. A voyeur. You should turn away. Close the door. Forget this._

_Forget __that__._

He spoke again, somewhat raggedly.

He said, "Juliet."

_OhmyGodIwantthosepantsoff._

No sooner had the thought formed than she was appalled, because… because… hell, she didn't know, except she _should_ be appalled, yet wasn't, which was appalling in its own way.

Carlton murmured something unintelligible, and his hand moved again, and her mouth was dry and her pulse was running amuck and she needed a cold shower quick.

_He is dreaming of you. He is very aroused. He wants you._

_It's just a dream. People dream about people they're not interested in all the time_.

_Move. Away. From. The. DOOR. _

_Because if his hand goes any further south, you're going to see something you're not going to be able to resist _helping_ with, and apart from the fact you're working, and Masters is in the next room, you can't. You can't_.

She fled.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton awoke, muzzy-headed and aware of the vestiges of a highly illicit dream featuring Juliet in her loose tee and flannel pajama pants—they looked alike now, she teased, only he'd wager she was a damn sight more alluring in her nightwear than he was.

In the dream, her clothing had inexplicably fallen off, leaving her nude and needing to be warmed up, and he'd helped her out, and she'd thanked him, and just as he was about to reap the benefits of her gratitude, two walls fell in and he was awake and alone and horny.

The walls were still standing, but he got up anyway after checking his watch; he was just a few minutes shy of his four-hour sleep time slot. Dawn was still a good twenty minutes out.

A cold shower would be nice… essential, even… but he willed himself to get under control first. It certainly wasn't his first X-rated dream about her—just the first one when she was in the next room.

Well, not counting the dreams from the last few nights.

He shook himself fully awake and insisted his body cooperate with him.

_You're not sixteen, and you can't have her, so settle down._

He found her in the kitchen, starting up the coffee. "Hey," he said quietly, finding her beautiful with her tousled hair, in her so-soft tee, even though she was tired and probably needed the coffee more than he did.

"Hey, partner," she said brightly. "You're a little early for the first cup."

"I can wait. Everything under control?"

"Yep. Masters is stirring."

Carlton thought she seemed a little flushed… probably his imagination. He reached past her for a mug just as she moved, and his hand brushed her bare arm.

She didn't flinch exactly, but she did react unexpectedly, with a sharp intake of breath.

For a moment he was unsure whether she was offended, or if he'd hurt her, and he started to apologize—but Juliet wasn't moving away; she was just… still, and her color was high.

"O'Hara?"

"Oh, sorry." She was breathless, and stepped back, not that she'd been in his way.

"You okay?" He wasn't sure _he_ was; this was very unsettling.

"Of course. You want, um, toast? Eggs? I was going to make some and I could…" She stopped, staring at him.

Carlton felt goosebumps, and couldn't remember the last time he'd had them.

"Did you… did you sleep well?" She was still breathless.

He instantly flashed back to his dream, and in the next second imagined her standing there in front of him naked, but God had mercy on him because Masters lurched into the kitchen yawning.

"Give me coffee, or give me death. Preferably coffee."

Juliet cleared her throat and silently got him a mug, and Carlton turned away with a gruff remark that he was going to go take a quick shower.

Needless to say, it was a cold one.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Two main thoughts circled round Juliet's brain that day.

First, she couldn't believe how hard it had been to behave normally around him when he stood in front of her all sleepy and warm and gorgeous and practically giving off sparks, and when he touched her arm it took every ounce of her willpower not to jump him, and that wasn't like her and he'd have flung her off in revulsion (well, maybe not in revulsion, but he would have flung her off for sure).

Second, seven o'clock couldn't get here fast enough.

She tried to nap in the morning at home but she was far too restless. She tried to do some work on cold cases but couldn't concentrate.

_Oh, come on. All it took was seeing him in that state—covered up, even—and you're suddenly lost in a sea of hormones?_

It was the way he'd said her name. That low, smoky voice.

Knowing he was dreaming of her. Talking to her in his sleep, wanting her enough to, well, dramatically change the contour of his flannel pajama pants. Yes. That.

Honestly, she wanted to hear it again.

At the house, finally, and surprisingly, she relaxed. As if being with him was all she'd needed, maybe.

Masters was in fine form, and not sleepy at all; he wanted to play Scrabble, and then he wanted to play again, and Carlton was growing impatient with the man's insistence on using words they had to keep verifying as legit via the iPhone.

Juliet was forced to break out the pie and ice cream just to get him to settle down, but it wasn't going to work on her, because Carlton was looking especially good tonight, even frowning. He went to the other room and changed into his v-neck tee and pajama pants a bit early, since he had the first sleep shift, and she hadn't ever realized how hard it was to make Scrabble words—or any words—when her partner's chest hair was so temptingly visible and touchable and _dammit, girl, what is wrong with you?_

The pie had no effect on Masters; he relocated to the sofa to watch TV, and Carlton raised his eyebrow at Juliet. "You okay on your own?"

"Go," she said resignedly. "Sleep the sleep of the just."

He grinned. "I would, but that's not my style. See you at two a.m., partner."

Juliet made her rounds and made absent responses to Masters when he spoke, and finally, after the local news, he declared himself ready to hit the hay, and lumbered off to the bathroom and then to bed.

Finally, she could breathe.

Not that she could breathe.

After Masters was settled, she showered and changed into her nightwear, and prowled the house again, trying to resist the lure of the bedroom where Carlton lay sleeping.

She lasted about ten minutes past Masters' first round of snoring before finding herself in the doorway of the dark bedroom, watching Carlton in the glow of the nightlight.

The covers were off again, and his shirt was askew, exposing his lean abdomen. One arm was flung wide and the other was alongside his body, and those long, dusky eyelashes were as tempting as the rest of him.

He was dreaming again, and her gaze wandered south, but there was nothing going on. Yet.

She was fascinated nonetheless. Relaxed like this, Carlton was damnably attractive.

Next thing she knew, she had advanced closer to the bed to see him better. To see his skin better.

Murmuring her name, he sighed, and the hand which had been at his hip moved onto his stomach, and as she was letting the shiver of desire overtake her, his hand moved again, his fingertips slipping under his waistband.

They stopped there, and she finally remembered to start breathing again.

_You are a nasty person._

_You are whatever a female pervert is called._

_Pervertress._

Still, she couldn't tear her eyes away, and when his erection started, she was utterly mesmerized and desperate to touch him.

_Don't you _dare_ touch him._

"Juliet," he said again, as needfully as he had last night.

She stood at the very edge of the bed, her gaze going from his face—eyes closed, breathing steady—to his nether regions.

_You are too close._

_Pervertress._

He moved his arm, casting it out toward her, and before she could move, his hand made contact with her arm.

_Oh God._

But he didn't wake.

His fingers curled around her forearm, and he said her name again, but he was still asleep.

He pulled her hand to rest on the bare skin his skewed tee had revealed, and Juliet's pulse jumped to a thousand to feel him like this.

How often does a woman get to touch her partner's exposed stomach, especially so close to what was going on south of the border, which was about _her_?

Carefully, slowly, and helplessly, she spread her fingers out, her palm flat against his skin. So warm. So warm and bare and kissable.

Carlton let go of her, sighing, and Juliet should have straightened up and moved away, but for a few more moments she allowed herself to touch his skin, sliding her hand up carefully under the tee and feeling the springy hair, and soon his heartbeat.

_I am going to hell._

_I don't care._

She was going to leave. Really, she was.

But as she carefully lifted her hand from his stomach, she couldn't help but look south again… and God help her, she brushed her fingers against the heat and growing hardness hidden within the soft flannel.

Just once.

And just for a second.

And then, flooded with heat and want and not one drop of regret, she ran out of the room.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The dream was more intense tonight.

Carlton woke with a start moments before it was too late to call back the dogs, and lay trembling in the bed, sweating as if he'd actually just done the deed he'd dreamed of in such detail.

He stumbled out of the room and down the hall, knowing he couldn't explain a cold shower now, but needing to dip _something_ in icy water, even if it was just his face, to get this… _situation_ under control again.

A few minutes later, staring at his damp reflection in the mirror, what loomed most in his mind was an image of Juliet simply touching his stomach, caressing him.

It was so intimate, and so erotic, and even, he dared allow himself to think, so loving.

_Get out of here before she comes knocking to see if you're all right._

He shoved his hands through his hair and glanced at his watch. It was half past one and he knew he wouldn't sleep again.

Lights off, down the hall; he found Juliet in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the sofa in front of the muted TV, with no other lights on.

"You okay?" she asked.

He imagined his rapid exit from the bedroom had gotten her attention.

"Yeah." It was unsettling—she was unsettling—sitting there so inexpressibly desirable. "I can take over if you want."

Juliet didn't get up. "In a minute. Everything's clear out there."

"Good. Five more nights before his testimony and we're done." He settled in at the opposite end of the sofa, but it wasn't far enough away to not want her.

Her expression was odd. "I haven't really minded this assignment too much. It's… had an up side." She smiled hesitantly. "I've… enjoyed spending these evenings with you."

Carlton was glad the lights were off, because he could feel the heat in his cheeks. "Ditto," he managed. "You're good company."

She was pleased. "You too."

He mumbled some thanks, and when she rose a few minutes later to go take her turn at sleep, she paused briefly to put her hand on his shoulder as she said good night.

Later, he couldn't remember whether he'd mustered any response at all, but the brush of her fingertips against his neck certainly woke him the hell up.

He prowled the house, checking sensors and reviewing evacuation procedures, determined to put the dream out of his head. He used his iPhone to check on active case updates. He made a sandwich. He paced.

Finally he went to the door of 'their' bedroom, just for a second, just to be sure she was all right.

She was all right, yes.

He couldn't understand why she'd slipped out of her pajama bottoms; they were folded neatly at the end of the bed.

It _was_ warm in here, he admitted, although the heat could have been just him. He couldn't decide, because he was too focused on looking at her luscious legs and then, inexorably, the pale blue panties he could see under her long but not really long enough tee.

She rolled over, away from him. This caused him to about swallow his tongue, because the tee rode up, exposing her lower back and the entirety of those panties which covered her oh-so-delectable backside.

Ah hell. He might as well go look for an ice pack to apply directly to his groin.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The next night, Juliet was determined to keep herself under control. She had tried valiantly and failed miserably to keep her mind off Carlton during the day, but she _would_ prevail this evening.

She had the first sleep shift, and began it promptly at ten, leaving Carlton with Masters and a game of gin rummy.

Last night she'd had nothing but erotic dreams about her long lean Irishman, leaving her wild-eyed and half-crazy by the time she was face-to-face with him over the breakfast table. He looked a little rough himself, but not in a way which made him any less desirable.

Lying in bed, she counted sheep, and then backwards from 100, and then backwards from 500, and then silently recited the entire California Penal Code sections on vandalism, public intoxication and forgery.

Then she imagined Carlton naked and sighing under her touch. Under her tongue.

Then she re-visited vandalism.

Then she imagined being naked herself and sighing under _his_ touch. Under his tongue.

Forget forgery, but she could do with some intoxication, if it would help get these urges under control.

It was past midnight and the main room had been quiet awhile. She knew Masters was in his room and she knew there was a bottle of wine hidden in the kitchen. Not that they were to engage in on-duty drinking. Not that she gave a rip.

Stepping out into the hall, she spotted Carlton in the armchair with a book, but he wasn't reading it. His eyes were closed until she padded past him. "Hey," he muttered.

"Hey. I'm getting drunk now," she answered conversationally, and kept going.

It wasn't at all surprising that he followed her to the kitchen, eyebrows up as she opened the wine and poured a generous amount into a Garfield glass.

"The occasion?" he inquired.

"I need to sleep."

"Ah." He rubbed his temple. "I know the feeling."

"You can have a go. I can tell I'm up for the duration."

"No, I mean…" He sighed. "The last few nights. It's getting harder."

_Oh, let's DO talk about that word 'harder.'_

She took a large swallow, and Carlton watched her, his expression speculative as he studied her. Finally he filled his own glass—Tweety—and toasted her.

They drank in silence, and she told him he might as well go to bed, and after he finally agreed, she made her rounds and did her check-in and believed for all of half an hour that she could resist him.

Yeah, right.

This time, she didn't bother lingering in the doorway.

She walked straight to the bed where he lay sleeping, and when his hand wandered to the clearly burgeoning erection hidden so well under the flannel, she bent and slid her fingers under his waistband, tugging the pajamas down gently to expose his… oh dear. Not his boxers.

There were no boxers.

There was just Carlton.

Erect.

_Oh, my._

I. Want. That.

_Oh MY._

There were no voices in her head chastising her or encouraging her. There was just silence, and his even breathing.

She went to the door… and closed it.

Returning to the bed, she took a moment to review. One action which was totally unconscionable was to take advantage of him like this as he slept.

She did have some personal standards, after all. Sure she did.

She was also incredibly horny and if she didn't have this man, soon, she'd be a puddle by morning.

So she woke him up.

She bent over him and kissed him softly. His lips were warm and firm and he murmured, but did not wake.

She kissed him more intently, and lifted his hand to her breast, and when that still didn't wake him, she shucked the shirt off and put his hand directly to her bare skin.

His eyes flew open and he jerked back, but Juliet kept her mouth on his, and kept his hand on her breast, and in a few seconds he groaned and gave up resistance.

That's when she knew his dreams really were about her, and had probably been going on a long time… just like hers.

A sensuous and hungry kiss from a wide-awake Carlton was a glorious thing indeed, she reflected, as he pulled her down to lie with him.

"Masters," he did mutter, hands sliding possessively down her bare back.

"Asleep," she muttered back. "Door closed. All check-ins complete." She could feel his erection through her pajamas and really didn't want to waste time talking.

Carlton didn't either, it seemed. He was very interested in suckling her breasts, and Juliet had to figure out how to get out of her pajamas and panties without separating his hot mouth from her nipple.

But she managed it, and managed soon afterwards to finally grasp the silky smooth incredibly hot flesh previously hidden from her view, and Carlton nearly lost it when her tongue dragged along his length with evil slowness.

"God, woman, you'll finish me off in nothing flat," he growled, and flipped her onto her back. Before she could even protest, he silenced her by sliding down her body to part her legs and get his own taste.

_No screaming_, she reminded herself; _no way would Masters sleep through that_. But she couldn't stop her thighs from clamping uncontrollably around Carlton's head, bucking up toward his wicked mouth as he tormented her to the point of no return, which didn't take long, since she'd been about ten seconds away from an orgasm for two days now.

And then he was inside her, kissing her as fiercely and deeply as he was driving into her, and she was more than happy with that, more than happy, more than reaching nirvana.

He held out as long as he could; she could tell—but she wanted his release. She needed it, and to know _she_ was the one who gave him that.

It was so intense, his orgasm, so intense that everything seemed to slow down for a few moments, as his so-very-damn-blue eyes widened and he broke the kiss, holding his breath, long slow-motion sensations freezing them together until the dam broke and he took her along with him, collapsing with her, on her.

"Never even got your tee off," she marveled.

Carlton laughed, still out of breath, and lifted his head to kiss her.

Juliet kept her legs wrapped around him while he pulled off the offending shirt, and then welcomed the delightful friction of his furred chest against her bare skin. "Mmmm, yes."

"We get caught, we get fired," he said almost calmly.

"We get fired, we have more time to do this again," she countered.

"That's fair." He kissed her mouth, seeking entrance with his tongue, and she granted it willingly.

She had a feeling she would grant him most favors of this nature willingly.

"What made you come to me?" he asked after awhile, holding her close, one hand on her hip and the other around her back.

"The fact that I wanted to come _with_ you," she said impertinently, and even in the nightlight's dim glow could see him blushing. "I've been damn near crazy the last few nights, dreaming about you." She wasn't quite ready to confess her voyeurism.

"Me too," he admitted. "Something about you wandering around in those flannels."

"And Mom always said it was silk that would do the trick."

Carlton sighed. "She was wrong."

"I want more, you know." It seemed bold to say it, almost more bold than coming in here and having the unmitigated horniness-induced nerve to tug his pants down and expose him.

He pulled back, gazing at her. "Tonight? You got it." His grin was accompanied by a grinding of his lower body to hers.

Juliet couldn't help but undulate against him, but stayed focused enough to say somewhat raggedly, "No, I mean—well, yes, tonight—but I mean… I want more." She touched his face tenderly. "More. Everything. This wasn't just a booty call."

Going still, he peered at her, and she met his searching blue gaze steadily. "I think we have that in common, Juliet." His smoky voice undid her completely.

"But a booty call isn't out of the question either," she amended, even as her heart swelled with hope at his tone and the look in those ocean-blue eyes.

"I think we have _that_ in common, too," he agreed, and pushed her onto her back again, already moving south with his tongue.

If Masters noticed they were both exceptionally mellow in the morning, he never said a word.

And this time when the day shift came to relieve them, the night shift went straight to Juliet's place for some truly private… co-mingling. Yes.

And the next time Carlton became aroused in his sleep, Juliet didn't helplessly watch.

She took matters into her own hands.

As it were.

**. . . . . .**

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	13. Chapter 13: Fortunes

**Disclaimer**: the usual admission of non-ownership.

**Rating**: **M, M, M**

**Summary**: another standalone chapter. Smut always occurs to me after I finish a non-smut-oriented story (insert random plug for _Building Bridges_). This one could also fit into my Contrived series, but it's way too smutty for a mere T rating.

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The fortune-teller smiled as they walked away. This would be good.

**. . . .**

**. . . **

Juliet settled into bed, exhausted from the longest of days. She and Carlton had been working the case of the murdered mailman for a full week, and the list of enemies he'd accumulated (whether during rain, shine, or sleet) was seriously long.

They'd also been sniping at each other, because Carlton didn't have any patience with the psychics and fortune-tellers the mailman had frequented, and Juliet didn't have any patience with the NRA members the mailman was semi-buddies with, and they hadn't snagged any good coffee in several days.

She was ready for sleep.

She just wasn't ready for the dream.

Hands moved on her calves, stroking gently. The room was dim and the man's face was in shadow, but his hands were gentle and sensual and wherever she lay, she was supremely comfortable.

The hands moved slowly up to her thighs, still stroking. He parted her legs, kneeling between them, and his hands massaged her bare skin.

She was so relaxed, and so aroused. It was all so... lovely.

He parted her legs even more, and bent closer. She could feel his breath on her naked body, there between her thighs, and she trembled.

He was going to kiss her... _there_.

Her phone rang, and she sat up fast and disoriented and horny.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton was vaguely annoyed. He shouldn't have been, because for the first time in a long time it had been just him and O'Hara out in the field—no Spencers, no Gusters, no other people—and working with her was what he liked best. But the case itself was so annoying, and he was starting to think maybe, just maybe, the mailman simply had it coming.

That last fortune-teller had been a snarky little... non-lady, he amended, as he got ready for bed. How dare she suggest... no, he warned himself, don't think about it. Wouldn't be prudent.

He climbed into bed… and dreamed.

A slim woman stood in a darkened room, her back to him. A far-off light source limned her outline, and he could see she was nude, but she would not turn her head, and he could not move around her.

_Touch me_, she whispered in his head, and he desperately wanted to do so.

Her skin was so soft; he dropped a kiss on the back of her smooth neck and felt her shiver. He stroked her back, from shoulders to hips, and found his _hands_ were able to move around her body, to cup her breasts. She shivered again, leaning back against him, and he could not see her face but he could feel her nipples hardening against his palms, and in the moment he realized he was nude as well... his phone rang.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Vick didn't bother to apologize for dragging them out to a crime scene after their long shift; this was a case which required all hands on deck: a home invasion with injuries to the family, the kind of case which pissed everyone off and needed to get resolved stat.

Juliet was restless, because despite the darkness of the work, she was unable to completely shake the dream off… partly because she wanted to know who she'd been dreaming about.

And because the dream had been interrupted at a crucial moment.

Carlton, for his part, seemed equally restless, but he too focused on the job and when it was three a.m. and the Chief sent everyone home for a few hours, he offered to drive Juliet home. He'd pick her up in the morning, he said.

She must have looked really done for, to get such an offer from her equally done-for partner, but she accepted.

Before she got out of the car, he said, "Sorry I've been such a prick the past few days."

Juliet, startled, turned back. "What? Oh. Well… I've been kind of bitchy, so… no problem."

He was looking out the front window, his profile clear in the lights from the dash. "This kind of case puts it all in perspective. Sleep well, partner."

"You too," she murmured.

But once she was back in bed, the dream returned.

This time, she was the one on her knees, between the parted legs of a nude man. She could not see his face, but she could feel his body heat, and hear his breathing.

He wanted to be touched.

Juliet stroked his lean legs, from ankles on up—long, gentle touches. Caressing the underside of his calves and thighs, she heard his sighs deepen, and she leaned forward to brush her lips against his inner thighs as she pushed them further apart.

_Please_, he said in her head.

Planting her hands at the top of his thighs, she skimmed her lips along his erection, and the heat of him took her by surprise. So warm. _Radiating_ heat.

She wanted more, and brought her hands to grasp this hot, hot flesh, to hold him firm as she cursed the blaring alarm and the god-awful deejay who had just interrupted a task she had really really _really_ wanted to complete.

Sitting up in bed, she pushed her hair behind her ears and tried to catch her breath. She wished she could go back to sleep. She wished she knew who she was dreaming about.

**. . . . **

**. . .**

Carlton didn't think he'd sleep again that night after he dropped Juliet off, but he was wrong.

And he was glad to be wrong.

He stood in the same dim room as before—even though he couldn't see any specific object or color, he knew it was the same place. He was nude, but perfectly comfortable. Anticipating.

The woman came up behind him, and he couldn't move to see her, but he recognized her… not her scent, for there was none, but her essence.

Pressing herself to him—he could feel her breasts touching his back—she encircled his waist with her slim arms, and gave light kisses to his shoulder blades.

It was gently erotic. He wished he could move his arms.

Her hands moved on his chest, up and down, stroking him. Playing with his nipples as he'd teased hers. She was silky warmth behind him, pressing closer, and then those hands moved down his abdomen, down his stomach, and she stroked him with one fingertip, making his flesh throb. He was already erect, and her nimble fingers kept him in that state.

Her sighs—not just his—were profound as she explored him and drove him insane, and he was desperate to move, to turn, to take her, and having Don Imus snarl something in his ear was not in the least bit aphrodisiac.

He pitched the pillow at the radio across the room, which had no effect on Imus—whom he hated; he only set the station to that channel to make sure he'd get up to turn him off.

Dammit. It had been a long time since he'd had an erotic dream that intense. Two in one night? Both interrupted?

_Damn. It._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They had to go back to Flakytown, as Carlton put it, to re-question the last fortune-teller, because when they ran her sheet, it turned up an old weapons charge, and it happened to be the same type of gun which killed the mailman.

She was unexpectedly amused to see them, and completely unconcerned about the gun business. Product of a bad marital choice, she said; her husband made her buy it because he couldn't get a gun in his own name. She grinned and grinned at them, and Carlton was growing more annoyed. The last thing she said before they left was _sleep well_, which Juliet thought sounded taunting.

The way Carlton scowled, he thought so too.

But the two of them didn't snipe at each other today. He'd even brought her coffee when he picked her up in the morning. They didn't talk much, but the silence was companionable.

Juliet was too tired for conversation anyway, and her mind kept wandering back to the dreams.

Work progressed on the home invasion case, and it was late when she finally got home. She collapsed onto the sofa, not willing to go another foot.

_Just sleep… you need sleep._

_You need me_, said the man, although she once again only heard him in her head.

He was teasing her nipple with his tongue. She couldn't move her arms to caress him, to touch his hair, to lift his head so she could see who he was.

His weight was half on her, pleasant and erotic, and his mouth on her breast was incredibly arousing. His fingertips strayed across her other breast, teasing and tormenting, while his lips and tongue continued _their_ torments.

Which she loved.

She arched her back, rising to meet his touch, and he lifted his head, caressing both breasts with hands she believed now were made to touch her.

She wanted to see him. She wanted to kiss him.

He put his mouth between her breasts and nuzzled her, then trailed his tongue down across her abdomen to her navel, his hands staying on her nipples as his tongue moved south.

Juliet parted her legs and hooked them over his shoulders, and he laughed, and she almost knew that laugh, almost… almost…

His mouth settled between her thighs and her near-instant orgasm woke her up, sweating and certain he hadn't even touched her, really, before it happened. It had just been building so steadily and rapidly, there was no stopping it.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton stood in the shower, but it was much too late for cold water. It was three a.m., and he'd awoken in a state worthy of a fifteen-year-old who'd just scored his first issue of _Penthouse_.

It was her mouth… damn, that mouth.

The woman was straddling him in this dream. Her soft thighs were warm where they were pressed to his, and although he could not see her face, he felt she was smiling.

He felt her hands sliding up and down his body, and he heard in his head her murmurs of appreciation... telling him he was so warm, so touchable, so sexy. Words he rarely heard (and hadn't for a long time), and yet he believed her. That is, he believed her sincerity.

She grasped him lightly, and stroked his flesh, and it was as if she knew him, and owned him.

He didn't have to ask for more: she _gave_ it; her mouth enveloping him while her fingers still stroked him, and it went on and on until he simply lost it, giving it all back to her and waking sweaty and hyper-aroused and needing the shower not to prevent the storm but to, well, clean up after it.

_Damn._

He rested his head against the tile, letting the warm water cascade over him, and was almost afraid to go back to bed.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Despite the lack of sleep, Juliet felt pretty good the next day. Her faceless lover had treated her well, and Carlton actually smiled at her over _bad_ coffee at the station, plus they had good leads on the home invasion case, so everything was looking up.

She treated him to lunch, which made him smile even more—and he had such an appealing smile; it stripped away the stresses of the job and enhanced his already remarkable blue eyes. He was in such a good mood by the time they left the café that he stopped at a street vendor just to buy her a gelato.

Juliet could get used to that.

She could also get used to the dreams, and therefore knew she wouldn't have one that night.

In fact, she was so certain she was done with the dreams that when she realized she was in one, and her lover's mouth was again between her legs, the orgasm didn't even wake her: she just let the dream roll on.

He slid up her body and entered her, all hot hard desire, and the room was so dark she couldn't make out any of his features but she _knew_ she knew him. She knew that physical presence. She _knew_ him.

And inside her was where he belonged: she knew that too. Arching up to meet his thrusts, finally able to move her arms so she could embrace him, she begged for his kiss, but she had no voice, and he didn't hear, and the orgasm—his? hers?—left her again wide awake, drenched in sweat, and half off the bed.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They had to go see the fortune-teller again. Carlton really did not like this smirky little woman. She was just too damned happy to see them.

This time they were asking her about her ex-husband's use of the gun he'd made her buy. While she babbled to Juliet, his attention wandered to some of the paintings hanging on her dark walls.

There was one with a couple in bed, half-covered by a velvet blanket.

_Velvet._

Instantly his dream flooded through his hormonally-charged psyche.

The woman was underneath him, and he was taking her. He was deep inside her, and it was a perfect union, and they moved in unison, except he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to see her face—a face he knew he knew—and he wanted to _kiss_ her, hard and deep and forever, but he couldn't. Somehow he couldn't. He sensed she wanted him to, but he couldn't—the motions of sex were too overwhelming, too demanding.

He woke in the middle of a hell of an orgasm, gasping and totally lost in those misty moments between dreaming and wakefulness.

Turning back to see how Juliet's conversation was going, he caught the fortune-teller grinning at him again.

"Knock it off," he muttered, and she laughed.

"You need sleep," she said kindly, but her eyes were not kind so much as… _knowing_.

Juliet glanced at him, puzzled.

The lady said to her, "You need sleep too."

He narrowed his eyes at her. It had no effect.

She actually cackled. "Remember what I told you the first time."

Carlton didn't want to remember.

_You are meant to be together._

He didn't know if Juliet heard it—she never mentioned it afterwards—but he'd chosen to believe the woman was just a meddler, poking fun at the cop, messing with his head because she could.

Asking Juliet was out of the question: if he did, he'd have to explain why, and telling his lovely, unattainable partner that someone hinted they should be together wasn't going to happen, because if he did, she would very likely laugh herself silly and become even more unattainable.

Still cackling, the fortune-teller shooed them out of her shop.

Juliet got in the car beside him and commented, "She's right about needing sleep. I haven't gotten much lately. Have you?"

Ummm… he shrugged. "It's never enough."

It never was. He stole a look at her: so damn beautiful. He wished he didn't love her the way he did.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She had noticed Carlton taking an interest in one of the paintings, half-listening to the fortune-teller as she studied his profile. He was very attractive, Carlton, even in a foul mood, but for the past couple of days he'd been surprisingly good-natured.

It was nice, and she already liked him too much. Maybe she more than liked him, but she couldn't afford to admit that to herself because they were partners, and There Were Rules.

He'd been on her mind as much as her dream lover, because when they were here the first time, the fortune-teller had whispered to her something she knew he didn't hear: _he is only yours_.

She admitted now to goosebumps at the sound of the words; at their implication. But he was her partner, and There Were Rules.

However, rules about anything else did not apply within dreams, nor to the one she had that night.

That a tongue could be so devastating was astonishing. Juliet felt his hands on her hips as he took her with his mouth alone. She felt his soft hair brushing her damp thighs as he slowly and relentlessly brought her to a series of rolling orgasms from which she couldn't wake and didn't want to.

He would not stop.

She stopped fighting it—she let go of her psychological desire to return the favor. She just let it happen.

_If I ever see your face… I will tell you I am _yours_. Even though you already know._

_I know_, he answered silently.

He lifted his head to smile at her… and she saw his face.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton was behind her, in the shower, water droplets glistening on her skin, and he was taking her, and she was crying out, and he was deep inside her willing, needful body.

She wanted more, harder, faster, and he gave it.

Mindless pleasure, mindless ecstasy.

Joined bodies, shared sensations.

She twisted as she arched back, moaning, and he caught their movement in the mirror.

For the first time, he could see her features… her damp hair, dark blonde… her beautiful skin, flushed with passion… and she opened her eyes and met his gaze, and he knew her.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The fortune-teller clapped her hands, laughing at what she saw in her crystal ball.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He could not face Juliet.

He had never been so happy to have a scheduled court appearance for the morning. He remembered Juliet had appointments in the afternoon, so if he dragged out his return to the station until after lunch, she should be gone, and he'd have a whole day to figure out what could not possibly be figured out in a single day.

Or fifty.

He'd been in love with her for a stupidly long time, so that was no surprise. He'd certainly fantasized about her before, because he was a male and human and male and stupid and male. And in love with his beautiful, sweet, kick-ass partner.

But what he didn't understand was why this succession of dreams _now_, and why her identity had been hidden from him until last night.

Did the woman only become Juliet because of yesterday's visit to the fortune-teller?

No. He knew the woman he'd claimed in the shower was the same woman from all the other dreams. He knew her shape, the feeling of her skin, even how she reacted to his touch and knew how to touch him.

So why hide it from himself?

And why now?

And _what_ now? He couldn't keep having this sort of dream about her. It wouldn't work at all to become visibly aroused every time he was around her. They frowned on that sort of thing, yes they did.

So yeah… what now?

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet knew he was in court all morning, and she knew she wouldn't see him in the afternoon.

The problem was, she wanted to see him. Having finally seen him in the dream, having finally identified her mystery lover as her attractive, irascible, desirable partner and friend, she wanted to look him in the eyes and decide whether Dream Carlton was in fact living inside Waking Carlton.

But she kind of knew he was. She'd long suspected Carlton would be that kind of intent and purposeful and giving lover—not that she'd thought about it that much—which was a lie—and she'd long suspected he might have feelings for her which went beyond mere friendship.

But they were partners, and There Were Rules.

She set her mug down and looked over at his empty desk.

Screw the rules: she had to see him.

"O'Hara!" Chief Vick called peremptorily. "My office, please. Break in the home invasion case."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton was on the sidewalk outside the courthouse, heading for his car. The trial took exactly long enough for him to justify delaying his return to work until Juliet would have left for her appointments, so he was optimistic.

The fortune-teller stepped into his path. As usual, she was highly amused.

"You know," he snapped, "I heard the real reasons babies smile so much is that they have gas. Is that your problem?"

She laughed. "How are you, Detective?"

"Get away from me." He tried to brush past her, and she caught his arm with a firm and bony grip.

"I told you," she said knowingly. "I told you. You are meant to be together."

He glared at her. "You're full of crap."

"Dreams don't lie."

"Dreams lie all the time. That's what they're for: so we can lie to ourselves enough to get through the rest of our lives." He shook his arm free, annoyed and now embarrassed, which was even more annoying.

She was surprised, her smile fading. "But that is not so, Detective." Tilting her head, she frowned at him. "I will fix."

"The _hell_?"

"I will fix!" Nodding with satisfaction, she toddled off down the street.

Damn her.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"He thinks they are only dreams."

Juliet spun around at the voice. She was walking to her car, fresh from the dentist's office, her mind on Carlton—who else?

The fortune-teller was close, and she was smiling.

"What?"

"He thinks they are only dreams. That they cannot come true."

She had goosebumps, and there was no point denying her understanding. "He's had the dreams too?"

The lady nodded. "Do you agree with him?"

"No," she said with certainty. "Dreams _can_ come true."

"This _I_ know. Now you need to make _him_ know."

"But…"

The lady smiled. "Show him."

Juliet's mouth opened but she had no words. "How?"

The smile fell. "Seriously? I can't do everything. Work it out." She huffed away, and Juliet watched her go with her mouth still hanging open.

_Right, then._

Time to find Carlton.

It was only four, so he'd still be at the station. If she went back, she'd get sucked into work, and she would do a flat-out terrible job at any task set before her.

She called him.

"Carlton," she said with exaggerated breathlessness when he answered—his normally crisp tone a bit unsteady. "I'm really sorry to bother you, but my car won't start. Could you come get me? Take me home? I've already called for a tow truck."

"Sure," he said, calmer now. "Where are you?"

She told him, and he said he'd be there in ten, and he was seldom wrong.

_What is your plan?_

_To look him in the eye and see if he's the one. _Really_ the one from the dreams._

Except as she reviewed her memories while waiting for him, she knew it was. She felt it was. He was the man in the dreams, and the dreams were real, and the fortune-teller was right, and he was hers. She'd just left out the part where Juliet was his.

Carlton's car appeared and she went to meet him before he got too close to her Bug; she didn't want him getting out and offering to jump-start it.

_Jump-start me._

"Thanks," she said as she slid inside his Fusion. "I owe you."

"Don't worry about it." He looked uneasy again, and his hands on the steering wheel were the hands which had been on her nude body.

"I'll make you dinner. I have some steak."

"Really, you don't have to—"

"I bought a bottle of Jameson's," she cajoled.

His eyebrow quirked, and his smile was slow. "Well, if you're going all out."

_You have no idea._

He drove to her apartment and followed her in, and she could sense his growing tension, but it wouldn't last long. Inside, she locked the door, took off her jacket and urged him out of his along with his holster.

Sleeves rolled up, lean forearms exposed, he loosened his tie and watched her watching him.

Juliet undid the top button of her blouse.

Carlton's crystal-blue eyes widened.

_If I had seen your eyes in that first dream, I might have been too scared to allow more dreams. I had to get to know you without the barrier of The Rules_.

Letting out a deep breath, she crossed to where he stood.

She was going to say…

"Did the fortune-teller tell you anything the first time we were there?"

It was Carlton's voice, not hers. Husky and uncertain.

Juliet froze.

He started to move back, and she grasped his arms to hold him there.

"Yes," she whispered. "She said you were mine."

Carlton paled, but the blue flared to something she recognized, primal and deep.

"What did she say to you?"

He swallowed. "Have you been having dreams?"

"Every night. What did she say to you?"

His fists were clenching and unclenching as he fought for some kind of internal control. "She said we were meant to be together."

"Oh, good," she sighed, and ripped his shirt off.

He more or less ripped hers off too, and the sofa was an excellent _first_ place to have crazed sex, more comfortable than the coffee table and much closer than the bedroom.

It was the damnedest thing to already know his body, and the sense of wonder she picked up from him suggested he was shocked at how well he knew hers.

Certainly in her dreams he'd learned all of it as well as she learned his.

It just about blew her mind when she spotted a small scar on the top of his shoulder which matched the one she'd dreamed, a scar she'd never seen in person because there was no real reason to see your male partner's bare shoulders.

The reason it didn't _completely_ blow her mind was that the rest of her mind was already fried at the moment, since the only reason she could see the top of his shoulder was that his head was between her thighs for real this time, and she was nearly screaming out in ecstasy.

They did it all. Everything they'd each dreamed, they did that day in her apartment, up to and including the shower. Twice.

And everything was perfect and crazily erotic and she lost count of the number of orgasms he gave her with tongue and hands—not to mention with the hard length of him driving into her repeatedly.

Sometime after midnight, drenched in sweat and desperately needing another shower, they lay trembling in each other's arms.

"We _were_ meant to be together," she said wonderingly.

"I _am_ yours," he agreed.

Juliet rolled more fully into his arms, easing her leg between his thighs. "Do you still think the dreams weren't real?"

"I think I'm dreaming _now_."

"Do you see my face?"

"Yes." He stroked her cheek tenderly.

"Can you see my eyes?"

"Beautiful blue eyes." He was smiling, and had no idea how gorgeous he was to her.

"Then you're not dreaming."

He kissed her, his mouth insistent yet gentle, and then he scowled. "That damned woman's going to gloat now."

Juliet laughed. "Let her."

"Hell, she's probably some kind of crystal ball voyeur."

"Oooh, then in that case, let's give her another show." Juliet slid down his body and took him in hand, and if the gloating fortune-teller hadn't already passed out from shock, what went on during the rest of the night probably pushed her right over the edge.

But 'the damned woman' had been _right_.

So let her gloat.

**. . . .**

**. . . **


End file.
